


Forever Tuesday Morning

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Groundhog Day, M/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Slurs, Suicide mention, Thommy - Freeform, Time Loop, i couldn’t kill Thomas, no one stays dead so don’t worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: Without you my life's gonna beForever Tuesday morning- The MockersA period time-loop set somewhere after Season 3.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Comments: 106
Kudos: 191





	1. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta - we die like men!

_To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all._

_-Oscar Wilde_

  
The thing about being in service that really grated on Jimmy’s nerves was that every day was the same old tedious routine: a painful six o’clock wake up call, lie in bed groaning until the latest possible moment then quickly throw on livery and make yourself presentable, work all day, at everyone’s beck and call, until your feet ache and you’re ready to drop. If you’re lucky, you might get an hour to yourself in the evening before bedtime. And before you know it, there will be a hall-boy banging on your door at 6am again.

The saving grace - one half-day off every two weeks - wasn’t anywhere near enough to make a dent in the monotony. And you still always had to get out of bed at 6 o’ bloody clock regardless, so you could serve breakfast and lunch before your time off. Just once Jimmy would like to wake up naturally, when his body was ready, probably somewhere around ten-thirty, and lounge around in his pyjamas smoking until someone brought him breakfast in bed.

It only made Jimmy bitter to think on dreams that would probably never come true.

Today was a day like any other; a Tuesday that could have been any day - Jimmy was woken by the six o’clock call, bone-achingly tired and loathe to peel his head off his lumpy old pillow. He dressed slowly, half-asleep, washed his face with ice-cold water from his vanity, smoothed down the cow-lick in his hair, and eventually made his way downstairs. Before Jimmy was allowed to sit down to his own breakfast he first had to make sure the upstairs breakfast table was set and iron the morning papers, all with a growling stomach. Although he always risked Carson’s ire and took longer than was strictly necessary over the papers, as he liked to read little bits of news from each one. It was fun to compare the same story in different publications and see the spin they put on it; The Sketch was always wildly different from The Times which was different again to whatever rag Mr Branson fancied that week.

Once he’d scrubbed the newsprint from his fingers he could finally see to his own breakfast, which was as predictable as every other aspect of his life. It was always some combination of tea, porridge, toast, one variety of egg or another and maybe a bit of sausage or bacon, depending on what Mrs Patmore had. Jimmy had heard that it was fashionable in France and the like to have cold meats and breads and even _pastries_ for breakfast - Thomas said that in America they sometimes ate a sort of pancake with a sugary syrup and everything. It sounded more like a pudding and it wasn’t the sort of thing Jimmy would want to eat every day but by god, it would make a welcome change to try something different once in a while. Old Carson would rather eat boot polish than let them have a _continental-style_ breakfast at Downton. No doubt it would be unbecoming or undignified or some other twaddle.

At least there was one enjoyable constant at breakfast - he could chat to Mr Barrow - or rather Thomas, as the under-butler had consented to allow Jimmy call him when it was just the two of them. Jimmy had been secretly thrilled; it always felt sort of intimate, like a pet name he might call his sweetheart, perhaps because Thomas was a such a stickler for making people use the correct honorific.

“Morning Jimmy,” Thomas said, taking the seat directly opposite. He hadn’t graced anyone else with a greeting.

Jimmy nodded back, his mouth full of buttery toast. He poured Thomas a cup of the tea he’d had brewing in a pot. Thomas took it with a small smile; his eyes were ringed with purple and he looked about as tired as Jimmy felt. They’d stupidly stayed up too late last night, talking idly and smoking cigarettes end-to-end until the servant’s hall was filled with a miasma of smoke and Carson had scolded them like errant children and forced them to go up.

Jimmy took the plate of toast from Bates to his right and passed it to Thomas, who took a slice and swapped out the toast plate for the bacon, which he handed off to Jimmy. It was a well-rehearsed dance over the breakfast table - Jimmy finding and handing over the things he knew Thomas liked, and Thomas returning the favour. And if there were crumpets, which was a rare treat, well, Jimmy always made sure to save as many as he could fit on his plate because he knew they were Thomas’s favourite.

“I must be getting old,” Thomas said quietly - only Jimmy was listening anyway, the others caught up in their own inane conversations. “Staying up last night has ruined me.”

“Just once I’d like to have a lie-in,” Jimmy replied, “or breakfast in bed.”

“What, like a married lady?” Thomas teased.

Jimmy pouted and pretended to be put out at the comment. “Better than an old man,” he said.

“Cheeky sod,” Thomas smirked around his teacup.

They were interrupted by Carson arriving - the squeal of chairs as everyone stood split Jimmy’s tired head. He waved at them to sit, but before they’d had chance the bell-board started ringing in multiple places and the room erupted into noise and hastily downed tea and people scurrying off in all directions. Jimmy shoved one last piece of bacon in his mouth, nodded a ‘bye’ to Thomas, and went about his morning.

~

Upstairs breakfast had been served, eaten and tidied up without a hitch and Jimmy was now standing to ‘attention’ in the great hall - Lady Mary was going somewhere with that Evelyn Napier bloke and they were talking to Lord Grantham near the front door. If only they’d hurry up and sod off out, then Jimmy would be free to go for a quick smoke before he was coerced into his next task. As he waited he spotted Thomas crossing the first floor galleries carrying a tray of glasses and cups he’d collected from upstairs, which was something Jimmy was supposed to have done before breakfast, but had forgotten about. He pulled a face - Thomas had covered for him again and no doubt he’d hear about it later.

He watched as Thomas swooped into one of the guest bedrooms and reappeared seconds later, another cup added to his collection. Jimmy often found himself watching the under-butler's movements throughout the Abbey - he looked akin to a black shark, sharp and annoyingly unreadable as he swam through the plush and perfumed rooms. And, like a shark, you were never sure if he would gracefully glide past you with calculated aplomb or stop and rip you to pieces with words as sharp and devastating as nine rows of teeth. Of course, he always treated Jimmy with the measured caution of an animal investigating an unknown interloper - a caution learned from past, unpleasant experiences, but a caution which was, however, seemingly at war with Thomas’s apparent inability to stay, proverbially, at arms length. Yes, like a shark drawn to a drop of blood in the endless ocean, was Mr Barrow ever drawn to the first footman, passing in ever-decreasing circles as a predator around prey.

Except Mr Barrow was no longer a predator where Jimmy was concerned. In a world where every day was the same and nothing ever seemed to change, between Thomas and Jimmy _everything_ had changed. Jimmy was not prey - he was simply a smaller shark, coasting in Thomas’s wake, snatching up the discarded bits of knowledge and experience and affection he gifted to his insubordinate.

Jimmy grimaced at the comparison, though his own mind had made it. Once it had been Thomas who begged and pined at the table for the scraps Jimmy would throw him - but that was before Thirsk and their odd, if poetically just, role reversal. Now it was the footman who pined, though he had fought, kicking and screaming against the goads, against the realisation that yes, he _wanted_ Thomas - he wanted him very badly indeed. And it was a want born not just of a sexual attraction, which was hard enough to stomach in itself but could be written off as a result of a very long period of forced abstinence, but of a, well, an _affection_ of the sort Jimmy hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling for anyone, let alone another man.

Jimmy's want, however, was still not yet enough to move him to action - his fear and shame were greater than his desire, although he felt the tide shift a little more against him every day. And so he watched and listened and pondered the actions of the under-butler, sketching the man's past, present and future in his mind until he felt he knew all that could be gleaned without a fierce cross-examination of words and, later, bodies. Thus, when Jimmy was supposed to be standing to attention or serving in the dining room, he mused on Thomas’s great mysteries and wrote papers and poems in his mind on the under-butlers similarities to a shark.

It was a shock then - a shock made more dumbfounding by Jimmy's opinion of the under-butler as infallibly graceful - when Thomas took a rather unpleasant fall down the grand staircase. A simple fall down said staircase would be painful enough, but his unconventional descent was worsened by the fact he was carrying the tray of empty glasses ( _"The best crystal!"_ Carson would surely bemoan) and teacups of porcelain finer than the under-butler's own skin. And Jimmy imagined the physical pain caused by such a fall was outweighed by the chagrin of having it observed by Lord Grantham, Lady Mary, Mr Evelyn Napier, and Jimmy himself.

Although in reality, due to the way the staircase turned and where they were all positioned near the front door, none of them really saw the fall itself, but only heard it. They did, however, see the aftermath; a certain Mr Barrow on his back at the foot of the staircase surrounded by the shattered parts of mortally wounded glasses and teacups, their shining fragments caught up in his hair and livery and lending the whole scene an ethereal quality. Jimmy was well aware he was gaping, rooted to the spot from both surprise and a rising panic that Thomas had seriously injured himself.

"Goodness, Barrow! Are you alright?" Lord Grantham exclaimed.

Thomas groaned and attempted to rise but failed, flopping back to the ground in an uncharacteristically awkward movement. Like a shark on dry land, a fish out of water, so to speak. Jimmy shook himself into action at the image, suddenly unable to rid himself of the thought that fish quickly suffocate when left out of water. He knelt at the under-butler's side, slivers of glass and china turning to powder beneath his knees.

"Thomas," he said, though they were in company. His slip went worryingly unnoticed and without reprimand. “Are you hurt very badly?"

"Not very badly, I think," Thomas replied with a tight-lipped smile, but the grip of his gloved hand on Jimmy's arm said otherwise. "Although I think the teacups are terminal." His smile faltered when he attempted to sit up.

"What is it?" Jimmy asked - he let an arm slip around Thomas's shoulders, taking the man's weight. Thomas sagged back against him gratefully, his brow creased with disguised pain.

"Ouch," Thomas said quietly, “I’m entirely too old for this.”

"Here, let me help you up,” Jimmy said, then; "You'll be alright, Thomas."

"I'll phone for Doctor Clarkson," Lord Grantham interjected, and Thomas stiffened - either at the sudden remembrance that his fall had been witnessed by The Lord of the manor or at the suggestion of Clarkson's involvement, - or perhaps a combination of the two.

"That's not necessary, really Milord," Thomas said, forcing himself to his feet and leaning rather heavily on Jimmy's arm. “I just need a sit down and a dusting off - I’ll be alright.”

“James, help Barrow downstairs please, and send up a maid to clear this away,” Grantham declared. “But please, do call Clarkson if you need to.”

Thomas nodded tightly and Jimmy helped him hobble through the green baize door. As soon as they were out of sight Thomas sat down heavily on the staircase and shook tiny splinters of glass and porcelain out of his hair.

“Are you really alright?” Jimmy asked, “I bet that bloody hurt.”

“Bloody hurt my pride, that’s for certain,” Thomas grimaced. He patted himself over, checking for injuries. “I’m alright I think, or I will be after I’ve played on it for a couple of hours and had a little sit down,” he smirked.

“Clever,” Jimmy replied, “here, let me help you down the stairs so it looks realistic-like.” He put an arm around Thomas’s shoulder and Thomas feigned a limp. “And I’m sorry I forgot about collecting the cups an’ that. That were my fault.”

“Never mind,” Thomas shrugged, “at least I don’t have to clean it up.”

Jimmy helped him down into the servants hall and deposited him into his favourite rocking chair - Anna and Mrs Hughes were standing by the table talking but they stopped when Thomas groaned.

“What on earth’s happened to you?” Mrs Hughes said, concerned.

“He fell down the grand staircase,” Jimmy said, gesturing melodramatically for good measure, “an’ smashed a bunch of glasses and cups while he was at it.”

“Goodness!” Anna exclaimed, “Are you hurt?”

“My pride mainly,” Thomas replied, “but Lord Grantham said I better have a sit down just in case.”

“Oh and a maid will need to go up with a dustpan,” Jimmy added, “the great hall floor looks like it’s been snowing teacups.”

“I’ll sort that,” Anna said and disappeared, ostensibly to do so.

“You better take it easy for a while,” Mrs Hughes instructed. “I’ll get Daisy to fetch you a pot of tea.” She turned to leave then stopped and said over her shoulder; “Jimmy, back to work then.”

~

Jimmy and Thomas didn’t cross paths for the rest of the morning and he wasn’t in the dining room when they were setting up for luncheon. Jimmy assumed he was making the most of his ‘injury’ and shirking off his work, which was fair enough. It was only when he came in to the servants hall for his own lunch - sandwiches, predictably - that he managed to check in with Thomas. The under-butler was in the rocking chair where Jimmy had left him, his eyes closed, apparently asleep. He looked decidedly peaky; his face was even paler than usual.

“Lunchtime Mr Barrow,” Jimmy called but Thomas didn’t even flutter an eye, so Jimmy approached and tapped him on the shoulder.

Nothing. Thomas was so still he might as well have been made of ivory.

“Thomas?” Jimmy said. He swallowed hard - dread suddenly heavy in his stomach. He reached out and touched Thomas’s cheek, then recoiled instantly - Thomas was as cold as marble, despite sitting next to the fire.

“Oh - oh god,” Jimmy choked out the words and pushed his fingers under Thomas’s starched collar in search of a pulse. His neck was cool and still under Jimmy’s fingers.

He was - it was _impossible_ \- it was _unthinkable_ \- he was _dead_.

All the strength left Jimmy’s legs and he fell to his knees on the dusty servants hall floor, struggling to breathe. He pulled off his tie and undid his collar but it didn’t help much. He gagged, swallowing down bile.

“Jimmy - what’s the matter?” Daisy asked, holding a full plate of sandwiches destined for the servants luncheon.

Jimmy couldn’t answer - his mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t make a sound. He wanted to scream, to call for help, to do something but he was immobilised and silenced by shock and the crushing weight grief.

“Jimmy,” Daisy started, then she looked at Thomas - she actually did a double take, her eyes went wide and wild and the plate fell to the floor, sending shards of china and pieces of bread everywhere. The sound of the plate crashing drew the attention of Anna.

“Daisy?” She said, approaching. Daisy might as well have been a pillar of salt. “Jimmy? What’s going - oh!” Anna’s hand shot up to her little bow of a mouth and she let out a cry.

Jimmy put his head in his hands. It was a dream. He’d wake up any moment to the six o’clock call and everything would be dandy.

Bates was drawn over by his wife’s distress. He took in the scene silently, before reaching out to touch Thomas’s forehead, then his neck.

“I’ll get Mr Carson,” he said flatly.

Jimmy was vaguely aware of the chaos unfolding around him, but it was as if he was seeing it from underwater or through frosted glass; Carson, as panicked as he’d probably ever been in his life, Daisy wailing in Mrs Patmore’s shoulder, Mrs Hughes crying at the table, Bates silent and pale-faced, Baxter kneeling beside him and weeping, Lord Grantham and Doctor Clarkson bustling in and out again. Jimmy hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen at Thomas’s feet and no one had attempted to make him. He’d reached up and taken Thomas’s gloved hand in his - the leather was now warm in comparison to Thomas’s cold skin. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was long enough to make his knees ache. Baxter, to her credit, had kept up the vigil beside him.

“Jimmy,” Mrs Hughes crouched down next to them and gently touched Jimmy’s shoulder. “Jimmy, the men are here from Grassby’s to take Thomas.”

“No,” Jimmy replied, “no thanks.” He ran his fingers over the raised leather stitching of Thomas’s glove.

Mrs Hughes didn’t seem to know what to say to that - her red-rimmed eyes were full of pity as she turned away and whispered something to Baxter.

“Jimmy,” Baxter said, her words punctuated with little hiccup-like cries, “Jimmy I know it’s hard - it’s a shock - but we have to let him go now.”

“Please, not yet,” Jimmy said, traitorous tears sliding down his cheeks, wetting his collar and spotting the slated floor. He turned to Mrs Hughes and said; “Mrs Hughes, please don’t take him away from me yet.”

“Ten minutes then,” Mrs Hughes said softly, “to say goodbye. Then the men from Grassby’s are going to take Thomas. He’ll be in good hands - they looked after Mr Crawley and Lady Sybil.”

“Ten minutes,” Jimmy nodded.

Baxter finally rose on shaky legs - she kissed Thomas on the forehead and petted his hair tenderly.

“Oh Thomas,” she said, “find your peace now, at last.” And she left, the click of her heels loud in the quiet corridor.

Mrs Hughes shooed out those who remained in the servants hall. Jimmy could hear hushed voices from the kitchen and Daisy or Ivy or someone crying.

“Thomas,” Jimmy paused - he didn’t know how to say everything he wanted, or if there was any point. Thomas probably couldn’t hear him. He’d left it too long and it was too late; now Thomas would never know he was loved - _beloved_. But he couldn’t let them take his Thomas away without saying something by way of a goodbye. He’d never gotten the chance with his father, what with him dying in the war, and it had left him with an odd sense of things being unfinished between them, like a song that had almost reached the end, only to have the last few bars left unplayed.

He pressed Thomas’s cold and slender hand between his own and said; “I’m sorry. There’s so much I should’ve said to you, but I’ll try to say the really important parts now. I’m sorry for how I treated you. I’ve done you so much wrong and you - you’ve been such a good friend to me when I didn’t deserve it. I - I can’t believe this is happenin’ - what will I do without you?” He choked back a sob - if he started that he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“I’m a damn fool,” Jimmy shook his head, “even now I can’t be honest with you - with myself. I - I’ve loved you Thomas. I was too scared to say it but - oh god, if I could have the time again. I swear I’d be a better man. And you’d know - you’d know you were loved.”

Mrs Hughes appeared in the doorway, solemn and teary-eyed, indicating the ten minutes was up. Jimmy rose, his legs numb from the unyielding floor. He tidied Thomas’s hair and straightened his livery - Thomas wouldn’t want to look dishevelled, even now. Jimmy leaned in and ghosted his lips against the corner of Thomas’s mouth - a mouth he’d never see smoking a cigarette or pulled into a smirk ever again. Mrs Hughes was watching but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his impropriety. It hit him squarely in the chest then, that the only kisses they had ever shared were when one party or the other was unconscious. What a waste.

Jimmy had wasted his chance at happiness with someone who loved him, and it hurt bitterly.

“Goodbye Thomas,” he said, “goodbye.”

Numbly, he let himself be led into Mrs Hughes’s sitting room where he sat down without being invited, etiquette be damned. The housekeeper poured out two very generous sherries.

“Here - I can’t say it’ll help much but,” she shrugged and downed her drink in one gulp, “it can’t hurt.”

Jimmy nodded - if he spoke he was liable to break down. Mrs Hughes sat down next to him and patted his arm. She looked like she was working herself up to saying something, choosing her words carefully before she spoke.

Silence, for a long moment.

“I know Thomas was special to you,” she said finally, “I had a soft spot for him myself, prickly as he was.”

“He wasn’t like that really, not really,” Jimmy said. “He could be awful and unkind when he felt like it but - but not when you really knew him. It was like his armour, his pettiness and meanness, protecting what was underneath. He was,” Jimmy sighed, too ineloquent to put what he thought into words, “soft, caring.”

“Not many had the privilege of knowing him like you did Jimmy,” Mrs Hughes replied. “He thought very highly of you.”

 _He loved me_ , Jimmy thought.

“The coming days will be hard on you, no doubt,” she continued, “and I want you to know my door is always open.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, and he meant it. He didn’t think Mrs Hughes cared for him in the slightest but perhaps he’d misjudged her. Or perhaps it was her affection for Thomas that moved her to comfort him. Either way, it was nice to know he had someone to turn to in his grief should he need it. He hadn’t had that with his parents and he’d nearly gone mad from it.

~

The upstairs lot had offered to see to themselves for the day, which was the least they could do, considering. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of “I’m sorry’s” and “I can’t believe it’s” from the other staff as he sat, unmoving and silent in the somber servant’s hall. It was tomb-quiet in the house, save for a whispered word here or there, which was rather apt seeing as Thomas had been sat in his rocking chair, dead as a door nail, for maybe hours before anyone even noticed.

Jimmy had been asked more times than he could count if he was alright, which really was a very stupid question. Of course he wasn’t alright - how could he ever be alright again when Thomas was gone? It was Ivy who was the unfortunate soul to push him over the edge.

“Oh Jimmy,” Ivy patted his shoulder. Her eyes were red and watery like she’d been crying. She didn’t have the right to be so upset - she hadn’t even liked Thomas and they’d probably said the grand total two dozen words to each other ever. “How are you?”

“How d’ya bloody think I am?” Jimmy snapped. “He’s dead, he’s gone and - he’s bloody gone, and I,” he couldn’t stop a sob from escaping.

Every pair of pity-filled eyes in the servant’s hall were suddenly on Jimmy.

“I’m never going to see him again. We’re never going to walk into the village or smoke in the yard or - or play cards or anything ever again. He was - you lot had no idea,” Jimmy addressed the room in general, “you had no bloody idea what he was really like, none of you. He was clever an’ funny an’ - an’ kind under it all,” his voice cracked - he was so goddamned angry at them all now, “an’ you all just put him down an’, an’ shoved him around like he was nothin’!”

Ivy was saucer-eyed and silent, clutching her teacup with bone-white fingers.

“James,” Carson said, his tone stern but not unkind, “I think you should go to bed now. You’ve had a very difficult and testing day. We all have. I will get someone to bring you a tray.”

Jimmy nodded tightly, the scraping of his chair thunderous in the silence of the servant’s hall. He was crying again, his eyes sore with it, and he was so very tired. The solitude of his room suddenly seemed very inviting. He walked out, a dozen pairs of rueful eyes on his back.

Once in his room he made a half-hearted attempted to remove his livery - he cast his tails off and let them lie in pile next to his bed. It meant in the future he’d have to expend considerable effort pressing the damn things but he still couldn’t make himself hang them up. It seemed disloyal somehow, go to about his normal routine when Thomas - his Thomas, his only friend in the entire world, the only person who’d seen Jimmy for who he really was and still wanted to be his - he was gone. Gone, soon to be buried and to rot and to turn to dust.

A great sob shook Jimmy and he sat on the edge of his cot, light-headed and grief-stricken and gasping for breath around his pitiful crying. He wept like a distraught child, his tears making clean spots on the dusty floorboards, his nose snotty and streaming, until he could weep no more.

~

True to his word, Carson sent Alfred up with a tray a couple of hours later. Jimmy was still sitting on the edge of his bed, his livery half off, red-eyed and staring at the wall. Alfred clearly didn’t know what to do in a situation such as this, so he quietly placed Jimmy’s tray on the end of his bed and gave Jimmy an earnest smile.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Alfred said quietly, “I really am Jimmy.”

Jimmy just nodded. Biting Alfred’s head off wouldn’t achieve anything and he didn’t have the energy, let alone the will.

“You know where ter find me, if ya want ter talk ‘bout it,” Alfred said as he closed the door, and honestly, Jimmy would just as likely broadcast his feelings over the wireless as talk to Alfred about it, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

After another hour of two of resolutely not eating and blankly staring at the wall Jimmy realised it was getting dark - shadows now clung to the corners of his room like cobwebs and the open wardrobe had been made inky and cavernous. He lay down, still half-dressed and the tray forgotten, and squeezed his eyes shut.

To be lost and unconscious in sleep would be a cold comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Thomas isn’t going to stay dead so don’t panic!
> 
> I’ve written eight chapters so far so I’ll post another tonight once I’ve had chance to edit!


	2. Tuesday, again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins 😬

The six o’clock call came as if nothing important had happened and the world had the nerve to just keep turning without Thomas in it. Jimmy thought that perhaps these circumstances were grave enough that he’d be given a days grace, but alas, no; he was just a servant, after all.

Jimmy was usually of the _just carry on_ ilk himself - raking over feelings and the how’s and why’s of a thing was to be avoided at all costs and Jimmy’s mind usually pulled back from such tripe like a hand draws back from the heat of a flame. Honestly, he was worried if he thought too much about it all - about Thomas and what might have been - if he pulled that thread, his whole mind might come loose.

His room was lit by the hazy glow of a rising sun as electricity hadn’t yet made it’s way up to the servant’s bedrooms. He sat up and looked around, confused; he couldn’t remember hanging up his livery or putting his pyjamas on or even getting into bed, but he supposed he must have done it in a fugue state or something. His livery certainly hadn’t hung itself up.

The tray of uneaten tea was gone too - someone must have collected it when he was sleeping. Maybe the unknown tray-collector had taken pity on him and hung up his clothes too.

He dressed slowly, half-asleep, washed his face with ice-cold water from his vanity and smoothed down the cow-lick in his hair. He stared at himself in the mirror - he looked truly awful, about ten years older than he had yesterday morning. If he’d been a woman, they’d have said the bloom had gone off the rose. Self-loathing curdled in his stomach like old milk, sour and poisonous - what had Thomas ever seen in him anyway? He was a silly, vain thing, only ever pretty on the outside - there would be naught left once his looks were gone except a worthless empty soul to match his worthless, empty life.

Jimmy turned the mirror over so the reflective surface faced the off-white of the wall and the brown cork back stared at him. He’d pinned a few things there for safe-keeping; a cinema stub from when he’d seen The Sheik with Thomas, a postcard Thomas had mailed him from America, a sarcastic note Thomas had pushed under his door one evening, a cigarette card with a portrait of Rudolf Valentino that Thomas had saved for him, a Christmas card from Thomas with a picture of a jolly fat robin on the front. He stared at the odd collection - all worthless, yet all to be treasured. Those little accoutrements were all he had left of Thomas now. That, and his memories.

Jimmy hadn’t realised how late he was until he left his room and found the men’s corridor empty. He made his way straight to the upstairs dining room to lay the table, but as he was so behind, someone had already finished it off for him. He found the pile of newspapers waiting to be ironed, but they turned out to be yesterday’s editions. Perhaps there had been a mix up at the newsagents? Jimmy couldn’t find it in him to give a damn if his lordship had to make do with yesterday’s news, so he ironed them anyway. If anything was said about it he’d just feign ignorance.

By the time he made it to the servants hall it was thankfully mostly empty, plates of half-eaten toast and cups of cold tea still scattered around the table waiting to be collected by one of the kitchen maids. A couple of housemaids were finishing their breakfast, talking conspiratorially behind their cups, and Anna was doing something with a dress at one end of the table. He noticed that someone had been sitting in Thomas’s regular seat - jesus, he wasn’t even cold yet and the vultures were already circling.

“Morning Jimmy,” Anna said, far too brightly for Jimmy’s liking, “running late today?”

He nodded in acknowledgment and poured himself a cup of tea - he wasn’t hungry, even for bacon. He managed a single sip of the tepid liquid before Alfred appeared.

“Jimmy, get a move on will ya,” Alfred said, “we need to go up.”

~

Jimmy wasn’t really paying attention to the upstairs breakfast, only catching snippets of the conversation. Mary was saying something about seeing Evelyn Napier again and Edith made the same damn jibe she’d made over breakfast yesterday - she must have already said every unpleasant thing she could think of to Mary and was now recycling the old insults.

Maybe they were trying to be kind or give the situation the stiff upper lip treatment, but the way everyone was carrying on as if nothing had happened was making Jimmy want to vomit on the tablecloth. He noticed they weren’t even wearing black, except for Mary who was still in her mourning clothes all these months later. Thomas had spent half his life serving these uppity bastards and they couldn’t even pretend to mourn him for longer than half a day. Jimmy raged internally and clenched his fists hard enough that his fingernails dug into his palms, even through the white cotton of his gloves.

There was someone milling around in the servery with Alfred - Jimmy supposed it must be Carson. Normally the under-butler would preside over breakfast but today...well. But there was something about whoever it was that kept catching his eye. Jimmy could’ve sworn he’d seen a flash of Thomas’s black hair and a half-gloved hand leaning on the doorframe.

Wishful thinking, unless he’d started believing in ghosts.

Jimmy made a round of the table, refilling the coffee cups from a heavy, ornate porcelain pot that was probably worth more than Jimmy would earn in his whole lifetime.

“You do look rather glum today James,” Lady Mary noted. “I hope you are well?”

Jimmy was about to answer in a way that might threaten his future employment when he stopped, wide-eyed and disbelieving, and dropped the carafe on the carpet. It smashed into a million bright shards scattered on a background of seeping coffee, like sparkling stars in a black night sky.

Thomas.

Thomas had walked in from the servery carrying a silver platter - though he was startled by the crashing of the coffee pot and nearly dropped it.

Thomas. _Thomas_.

Walking and breathing and living.

He was _alive_.

“Thomas,” Jimmy said blankly, “Thomas?” His vision swam and he had to hold on to the edge of the table to stop himself from falling. Thomas quickly deposited the platter and caught Jimmy by the elbow in one smooth manoeuvre. Jimmy stared at Thomas’s hand on his arm, then at Thomas’s puzzled expression.

“James, are you alright?” Thomas asked, concern openly etched on his face.

“Thomas - I - I don’t - but you,” Jimmy couldn’t organise his thoughts enough to make a sentence. He threw his arms around the under-butler and stifled a sob against his lapel.

“Jimmy, you’re scaring me,” Thomas said softly, “what’s the matter?”

Jimmy just shook his head and balled his fists in Thomas’s livery.

“Barrow, is James quite well?” Lord Grantham asked. Jimmy had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

“No,” Thomas said, “he’s feeling quite unwell - I wonder if you would mind him sitting in your presence?”

“Of course not,” Lord Grantham replied, “I’ll ring for Carson.”

Thomas managed to lower Jimmy gracelessly onto the green velvet chaise by the window and Alfred started scoping up pieces of the ruined coffee pot.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Thomas said quietly and pressed his ungloved hand against Jimmy’s forehead.

“I have, I think,” Jimmy replied. He studied Thomas’s grey-blue eyes, his downturned red lips, and the way his dark hair had fallen slightly over his brow from the exertion of half-carrying Jimmy over to the chaise. He reached out and fingered Thomas’s lapels, then his white tie, then his jaw.

It was really him.

It was Thomas and somehow he was alive, even though Jimmy had seen his corpse only yesterday. He caught Jimmy’s hand and lowered it discretely, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” Thomas whispered. “You’re staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

Jimmy opened his mouth to answer and clamped it shut again - what the hell was he going to say? That Thomas had died yesterday but somehow had bloody well recovered overnight?

“I’m not - I don’t feel good,” Jimmy said weakly, at a loss for any other excuse.

“Clearly,” Thomas frowned.

Carson announced his arrival with a disapproving harrumph, but took one look at Jimmy and tasked Thomas with taking him upstairs for a lie down. Thomas hooked an arm around Jimmy and helped him up the staircase, although Jimmy was pretty sure he could have done it under his own steam. Having Thomas so close - breathing, moving, throwing Jimmy worried sideways glances - was so comforting he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Thomas deposited Jimmy on his unmade bed and knelt down, pulling Jimmy’s’ foot against his thigh. He removed the footman’s shoes with the sure hands of a former valet.

“Now are you goin’ to tell me what’s really the matter?” Thomas asked, putting Jimmy’s shoes under the bed. “You look - I don’t mean to sound rude here, but you look awful.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy replied dryly, then said; “come and sit next to me for a minute will ya?”

Thomas frowned but did as he’d been asked. Jimmy couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and fingering Thomas’s leather-gloved hand, just to make sure he was real. Today the leather was still warm and butter-soft, but Thomas’s skin was warmer, his fingers rough and work-worn.

Thomas didn’t comment but his steely eyes were following the path of Jimmy’s hand.

“I had - I suppose it was a dream,” Jimmy explained, feeling ridiculous. “You - something awful happened to you. And I guess I was - well, confused, when I saw you in the dining room,” Jimmy finished lamely. He honestly didn’t know how to try and explain what he’d experienced when he didn’t understand it himself.

“Well,” Thomas extracted his hand and patted Jimmy’s shoulder companionably, “I’m fine, as you can see. But I think you ought to take the morning off, get some rest. Maybe you’re sickening for something?”

Jimmy nodded. It hadn’t seemed like a dream - he’d never had a dream that was so awful in its realism. But what other explanation was there? It wasn’t the sort of thing people would make a practical joke out of, and Jimmy had felt Thomas’s lifeless body himself. The memory of it sent a shiver through Jimmy and he had to take a deep, steadying breath.

“Are you sure that’s all?” Thomas asked, concerned.

Jimmy paused - there was so much he wanted to say but talking about his emotions was akin to swallowing glass. “I - we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“For my part, yes,” Thomas replied.

Jimmy nodded, “Good. I want you to know you - you mean a lot to me. You’re - I’ve never had a friend like you.”

Thomas frowned, misunderstanding, and opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy cut him off.

“I didn’t mean nothing bad by it,” he said, “I’m trying to be nice.”

“You need to work on your delivery then,” Thomas snorted, but his eyes were soft.

“I’m awful at saying what I mean,” Jimmy undid his tie and slung it over his bed frame. “I - in the dream, when you were hurt I, I realised I haven’t ever told you that I - I do care about you, y’know?” He gripped Thomas’s elbow.

“Ah,” Thomas ducked his head, abashed. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I’ve not been good to you,” Jimmy continued, “but I mean to put that right.”

“You’ve been good enough,” Thomas started.

“No, I’ve not,” Jimmy squeezed Thomas’s elbow and he stilled under Jimmy’s touch. “But, ah, lets talk more this evening, alright? Once all the work’s done, come and find me.”

Thomas nodded, clearly confused but still unable to deny Jimmy anything.

~

Jimmy found it easy enough to fall asleep; grief and confusion were surprisingly tiring. He woke with the early afternoon sun on his face, disoriented from napping for too long, and terribly hungry. It was becoming easier to believe ‘yesterday’ was just a dream. What else could it be?

He straightened out his crumpled livery as best he could and made his way down to the servants hall. He’d missed lunch but if he grovelled and played the invalid card he could probably coax Mrs Patmore into making him something.

“Aha, here’s sleeping beauty now,” Mrs Patmore teased, “didn’t think we’d see you downstairs again today.”

“I’m hungry,” Jimmy shrugged, stealing a biscuit from a cooling rack. It burned his mouth a little, but it was worth it to have the buttery shortbread melting on his tongue.

“I saved you some lunch,” Mrs Patmore replied, pretending not to notice Jimmy’s thievery. “I was just about to send trays up for you and for Mr Barrow.”

“Mr Barrow?” Jimmy frowned, “Why does he need a tray?”

“He had an awful fall this mornin’,” Daisy explained, “right down the grand staircase. He went for a lie down after and we haven’t seen him since.”

“Skiving off no doubt,” Mrs Patmore added.

Jimmy froze, his stomach bottoming out.

It couldn’t be.

It was _impossible_.

Jimmy turned on his heel and walked briskly down the corridor, breaking into a run by the time he’d reached the staff staircase. He could hear Mrs Patmore calling his name, but he ignored her and pounded up the stairs as quickly as he could, breathing heavily. At the top of the stairs he practically shoved Molesley out of his way, charged down the corridor to Thomas’s room and barged in without knocking.

The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, filling the room with a red glow. Thomas was lying on his bed in his shirtsleeves, his eyes closed. Even in the half-light Jimmy knew immediately that something was wrong. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d discovered Thomas’s corpse.

“Thomas,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He took Thomas’s gloved hand in his own - warm leather, cold skin. He pressed a finger against Thomas’s neck - cold as marble, still, no pulse.

It had happened again.

Next came the tears; the disbelief; the goodbyes; Grassby’s men. It passed by Jimmy as if he were in a dream - it hadn’t been real the first time, or it was real but somehow had been undone, so perhaps this time would be the same?

But what if it wasn’t?

He begged Mrs Hughes for his ten minutes, knowing she’d acquiesce, and spent the time silently petting Thomas’s hair.

After, Jimmy hid in his room so he didn’t have to talk to anyone as he honestly didn’t know what he would say if he was asked any difficult questions. Thankfully everyone assumed he was grieving and gave him a wide berth. He tried to make sense of what had happened - it was as if he’d replayed the day, like when a film reel got stuck and the same scene flickered on the screen over and over again. But because Jimmy had behaved differently this time to the first, the outcome had been slightly different.

Not different enough though.

He remembered the words he’d said the first time Thomas had died; _if I could have the time again, I’d make sure Thomas knew he was loved. I’d be a better man._

Jimmy didn’t hold much credence in religion and he’d certainly not meant the words as a prayer but - well, he was running thin on explanations and had fallen on God; a curse - which seemed even more ridiculous; or some sort of mad science, like something from a H.G. Wells novel. He was pretty sure that was impossible, and he couldn’t see why any scientist would want to torture Jimmy with the same damn day over and over anyway. Divine intervention seemed the most likely then, or perhaps Jimmy had just gone insane.

He didn’t examine the last option too closely.

He stayed up very late, turning the events of the day over in his mind. If he was indeed being given the opportunity to have his time again, then maybe he was supposed to be learning some kind of lesson. Perhaps the key was Thomas - or rather his untimely death.

Yes. That’s had to be it.

If Jimmy could prevent Thomas from dying, maybe things would go back to normal. Whatever the consequences, he had to stop Thomas from falling down the stairs.

He had to.


	3. Carson’s Lamp

Jimmy couldn’t remember falling asleep but he was woken by the six o’clock call all the same. He jumped out of bed, bolted out of his room and down the corridor, and charged into Thomas’s room without so much as a knock.

The under-butler was half-dressed; bare-chested with his trousers unbuttoned, his hair in disarray. Unkempt, yes, but very much alive.

“Jimmy, what the hell are you doing?” he exclaimed, his voice still sleep-rough. Jimmy crossed the room in two strides - Thomas looked like he was afraid Jimmy was going to hit him and he took a step away, backing up to his dresser. Jimmy advanced and threw his arms around an alarmed and confused Thomas, his bare skin wonderfully warm and soft under Jimmy’s hands.

“Jimmy, Jimmy,” Thomas tried to pull away but Jimmy wouldn’t let go - he’d clamped on to Thomas like a spring trap around a rat. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy said, his face pressed into Thomas’s shoulder. “I just - I had to check, that’s all, I had to check you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas said gently, “I’m alright - I don’t think you are though. You’re shaking, Jimmy.”

“I,” Jimmy released his grip a little and tried to regain his composure, “I had a bad dream, a really bad dream, that’s all,” he lied.

“Oh,” Thomas said. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose were flushed pink, as if he’d been lying out in the sun too long. Thomas cautiously extracted himself from Jimmy’s arms and patted his shoulder companionably, “I’m fine, as you can see. But I think you ought to take the morning off, get some rest. Maybe you’re sickening for something?”

“No!” Jimmy shook his head, alarmed. “I mean, I’m alright now, really, I am.”

Thomas frowned, probably surprised that Jimmy didn’t want to make the most of the opportunity to shirk his work.

“And don’t you worry about the cups and glasses upstairs, I won’t forget to collect them this morning.” Jimmy said, probably more enthusiastically than would be considered normal. “I promise.”

“Well there’s a first time for everything I suppose,” Thomas smirked. He paused then said; “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh, I’m dandy,” Jimmy replied, and left, closing the door behind him.

~

Jimmy rushed through his morning routine and made it down to iron the papers in record time, then he practically ran to collect the cups and glasses from upstairs, garnering an odd look and a _“what’s the matter wiv you today?”_ from Alfred, which he chose to ignore. Once he was done with the cups and glasses he loitered at the top of the grand staircase, waiting for Thomas to appear.

“What are you up to then?” Thomas said, stepping out of one of the guest rooms.

“Waiting for you - I thought we could go down to breakfast together,” Jimmy smiled.

Thomas looked puzzled but pleased; “Alright.”

They walked down the stairs side-by-side and Jimmy was so nervous his heart almost burst out of his rib cage. He tried to keep an inconspicuous watch over Thomas, but the under-butler’s keen eyes kept catching him staring.

“Jimmy,” he caught Jimmy’s elbow and pulled them up on the quarter-space landing where the stairs turned. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Do you trust me?” Jimmy asked.

Thomas blinked; “...Yes.”

“Then - trust me now, alright?” Jimmy looked up and down the staircase to make sure they were alone, then linked his free arm through Thomas’s.

Thomas’s eyes went wide but he didn’t speak. Jimmy led the under-butler down the stairs, holding his breath until both his feet were firmly planted on the great hall floor. He released Thomas from his grasp and let out a shuddering exhalation of relief.

“I’d ask what that was about but I think I’d be wasting my time, wouldn’t I?” Thomas stated.

“Ask me again this evening,” Jimmy replied, “and I promise I’ll tell you. Everything.”

“Well that’ll give me something to look forward to.”

They sat opposite each other for breakfast, as was their routine. Jimmy clumsily splashed Thomas’s tea into his cup, Thomas passed the bacon, and so forth, in their usual dance. But Jimmy couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing madly under the table and he cut his food with shaking hands, his knife and fork clattering nervously against his plate. Thomas kept tossing him perturbed looks that Jimmy pretended not to notice.

Serving the upstairs breakfast when he was so full of nervous energy was challenging and standing perfectly still was proving to be the biggest problem. Jimmy couldn’t help checking on Thomas, his eyes flicking over to the under-butler every few seconds. In the end he had to make himself silently count up to one hundred before he let himself look at Thomas again. Once breakfast was finished, Jimmy cornered Thomas in the servery, leaving Alfred to see Lady Mary out on her trip with Mr Napier.

“Come outside for a cigarette with me,” Jimmy pestered. He had to make sure Thomas didn’t go back up the grand staircase for any reason.

“Alright,” Thomas nodded, “but you are being strange today Jimmy.”

Once outside Jimmy risked soiling his livery and leant against the slightly damp brickwork, nicotine and the cool morning air calming his frayed nerves. Thomas stood next to him exhaling clouds of noxious smoke out of his nose, then he pursed his red lips and blew little smoke rings into the air.

“I wish you’d teach me to do that,” Jimmy said.

“It’s all in the tongue,” Thomas said, his lip curling into a sly smile. He had a way of making innocent statements sound positively debauched.

“Thomas,” Jimmy turned his attention fully on the under-butler; the morning sunlight played across his angular features and his pale skin, his face chiselled out of marble and shadow. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“For my part, yes,” Thomas replied, then frowned.

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“Nothing, I just had the feeling we’ve had this conversation before.”

Jimmy nearly choked on his cigarette. Of course, they already had, but Thomas shouldn’t know that.

“Déjà vu I suppose,” Thomas said.

Jimmy just nodded. He couldn’t very well go telling Thomas what was happening, could he? Nobody in their right mind would ever believe him. Why would they? It sounded mad - it bloody _was_ mad.

“Will - will you do something for me?” Jimmy asked.

“Probably,” Thomas said, chagrined.

“It’ll sound strange, but please just hear me out,” Jimmy started - he had Thomas rapt attention now, his eyes so sharp Jimmy worried they could bore into his brain and read his mind. “Will you promise me you’ll stay off the grand staircase, just for today?”

“Why?” Thomas asked, puzzled.

“I can’t - I really can’t explain it. You’d think I’d gone loopy,” Jimmy said.

“I might think that already.”

“Please, humour me?” Jimmy pleaded. “Don’t make me beg, alright?” His mind unhelpfully provided an image of him on his knees before Thomas, begging, and a blush crept up his neck.

Thomas’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and for a moment Jimmy thought Thomas _could_ read his mind.

He sighed, resigned, and said; “Alright, if it’s that important to you. But I won’t pretend I understand it.”

Jimmy smiled, a weight lifting off his shoulders, “Thank you.”

~

Upstairs luncheon was a success, besmirched only by Jimmy very nearly spilling a bright-yellow hollandaise sauce on Lady Rose’s frock. Instead of minding what he was doing, he’d been unable to take his eyes off the still-alive Thomas and was engaged in watching him elegantly carry a steaming platter in from the servery, straight-backed and perfectly turned out as always, when the almost-spill occurred. Of course, old Carson had eyes like a hawk where Jimmy was concerned and his thunderous expression confirmed he’d noticed Jimmy’s near miss. It was easy to spot someone’s blunders when you were always on the lookout for them. When the upstairs lot retired and they were released back below stairs, Carson made a noise of displeasure in Jimmy’s direction and called him into the butler’s pantry.

“Whatever is the matter with you today James?” Carson reprimanded, his heavy brows drawn into a reproachful frown. He made to turn on his desk lamp but it flickered and stuttered like the electric bulb was going.

“Nothing,” Jimmy lied. He couldn’t think of a person he’d be less likely to confide in about any problem, let alone one that made him sound fit for Bethlam Hospital.

“You’ve been in a dream all morning,” Carson continued, fiddling with his lamp.

“Sorry Mr Carson,” Jimmy said. When it came to Carson it was best to just apologise and sound as contrite as possible. Trying to defend yourself only prolonged the agony.

“And you very nearly spilled that sauce on Lady Rose - I may have to put a ban on you staying up so late if this is the result,” Carson droned on and Jimmy had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “This house expects...”

Carson was cut short by a knock at the door - Thomas entered without waiting to be invited.

“Ah Mr Carson, I was wondering if I could borrow James please?” Thomas said with false pleasantness. “Only I could do with a hand as Lady Rose would like to move some furniture around in her room, and Alfred’s busy at the moment.”

“Very well,” Carson said. His lamp flickered and finally went out. “But find me a new bulb for this lamp first. His Lordship is expecting me and I can’t hang around here supervising _you two_.” He spat out the words _‘you two’_ as if they burned his mouth.

Thomas just nodded, one of his fake, tight-lipped smiles plastered on his face, and Carson hurried off.

“His Master’s voice calls and he answers,” Thomas smirked, “it’s like he’s in competition with His Lordship’s dog as to who’s most loyal.”

“You can say that again,” Jimmy grinned, then asked; “Does Lady Rose really need help or was that just a way of rescuing me from Carson’s wrath?”

Thomas shrugged, “The latter - I thought you’d had enough of a dressing-down.”

Jimmy smiled at his preferential treatment. “I had, thanks for that. And there’s a box of spare bulbs in the store cupboard.”

“Fetch us one will you?” Thomas said. He sat in Carson’s chair and started fiddling with the lamp, removing the stained glass shade. Jimmy was only halfway down the corridor when all the ceiling lights dimmed, flickered, and went out with a pop.

“Thomas!” Jimmy exclaimed - he turned and ran back into Carson’s pantry, already expecting the worst.

Shite. Bloody buggering hell.

Thomas was on the floor this time, Carson’s lamp smouldering beside him. Jimmy kicked it away and knelt beside Thomas - he wasn’t cold yet but he was definitely dead; no pulse, his good hand now blackened beyond repair.

Mrs Hughes bustled in, probably looking for Carson to find out what was going on with the electricity.

“Jimmy?” she said. Jimmy didn’t turn around but he could pinpoint the moment she spotted Thomas by her gasp of surprise. “Good lord,” she whispered, then the click-clack of her heels running down the corridor marked the beginning of the next cycle of tears, disbelief, goodbyes and Grassby’s men.

Jimmy stayed on the floor of Carson’s pantry for a long time after they had taken Thomas, barely able to breathe, let alone think or talk. It was Mrs Hughes who eventually pulled him up from his knees and guided him into her sitting room. Mrs Patmore was already sitting at the little table, her usually red face now markedly pale. Jimmy joined her whilst Mrs Hughes poured out three generous sherries - Jimmy pounded his back and rolled the empty, cool glass between his palms.

“I know Thomas was a _special friend_ ,” Mrs Hughes started, but Jimmy held up his hand to stop her. He couldn’t listen to her platitudes again.

“I know you’re trying to help me Mrs Hughes, because you were fond of Thomas, and that your door will always be open and all that, but - but don’t. Alright? Just _don’t_. I’m beyond help,” Jimmy said.

Mrs Hughes blinked, surprised. Well, Jimmy had just literally taken the words out of her mouth.

“I know it seems like that now,” Mrs Patmore patted his arm with one of her meaty hands. “It always seems like you can’t go on. Like it’s the end of all things. But time is a great healer.”

“Time - time isn’t on my side,” Jimmy said, then added, “don’t worry, I’ll be fine by the morning.” Both women regarded him with a wary sort of concern, as if he were equally likely to burst into tears or go on a murderous rampage, but they didn’t try to stop him as he rose from his chair and left. He went directly to his room, mercifully without encountering anyone else, lay down on his bed still fully dressed in his livery and waited for the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like crack to me so they are more than welcome!


	4. The Thirsk-Downton Bus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading and commenting!

The six o’clock call came as seemed to have been doing for the entirety of Jimmy’s life. He was beyond exhausted as he hadn’t actually slept more than a couple of hours the past two nights. He rolled out of bed as quickly as he could muster and padded down to Thomas’s room, still in his pyjamas. He knocked, once, and waited. Yesterday - or rather, _today_ , but the last time it was today - Jimmy had rushed in, overwhelmed with relief. This time he’d try quiet and calm insistence, just to see what effect it had on the days events.

“Hang on,” said a sleep-rough voice from inside. He was alive then. Thomas appeared in the doorway a moment later in his undershirt and unbuttoned trousers. “Jimmy?” he said, frowning.

“Can I come in?” Jimmy said, fighting the urge to throw his arms around the under-butler, “It’s important.”

Thomas looked left and right down the corridor then nodded, “Alright,” and let Jimmy inside. Jimmy closed the door behind them and Thomas eyes him warily.

“What’s the matter?” Thomas said, as if having Jimmy in his room meant something must be wrong.

“Nothing,” Jimmy lied, then added; “well, not nothing. It’s complicated. Can I sit?” He gestured to the neatly made bed, the corners the envy of any housemaid.

Thomas nodded but maintained his distance.

“Will you sit down please?” Jimmy patted the rough blanket beside him. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m making _you_ nervous?” Thomas frowned. He fetched his cigarettes from his dresser and shoved one between his lips.

Jimmy patted the bed again, insistent, and Thomas relented.

“We’re friends aren’t we?” Jimmy said - he’d lost track now of how many times he’d had this conversation.

“For my part, yes,” Thomas said and blinked, confused.

“Déjà vu?” Jimmy said sagely. Perhaps all this resetting of time was having an ill effect on Thomas’s mind.

“Yes - how did you know?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jimmy shook his head. “Anyway, you trust me don’t you?”

“...Yes,” Thomas nodded.

“Then I need you to promise me something. Stay off the grand staircase today, please,” Jimmy reached out and took Thomas’s gloved hand; warm leather, warmer skin. “Please promise me.”

Thomas opened his mouth to speak but stopped, staring at Jimmy’s hand on his.

“ _Please_ ,” Jimmy insisted, lacing his fingers with Thomas’s. That simple gesture was enough to convince him and Thomas nodded.

“Alright,” Thomas said, his voice low. “But Jimmy - you’re scaring me, whatever is the matter?”

“Promise it,” and Jimmy lifted Thomas’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles softly. Thomas’s mouth dropped open, his lovely lips a red circle.

“I promise,” he whispered.

Jimmy ghosted his fingertips over Thomas’s forehead, pushing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his brow. Thomas’s eyes fluttered shut and he leant almost imperceptibly into Jimmy’s touch, his cheekbones painted pretty with a blush.

“Thank you,” Jimmy said and touched his lips to the corner of Thomas’s mouth. Thomas’s eyes flew open in surprise and he let out a started gasp.

“Jimmy, I don’t understand,” Thomas said, his eyes imploring.

“Find me after lunch and we’ll talk, alright?” Jimmy replied.

Thomas was silently warring with himself over what to do. After a long moment his want seemed to win out over his fear; he reached out with a trembling hand and cupped Jimmy’s cheek. Jimmy smiled, abashed and somewhat ill at ease, but nevertheless comforted by the warmth and life of his hand.

“Alright,” Thomas said quietly, “lunchtime.”

Jimmy was loathe to move; perhaps he could convince Thomas to just stay here with him all day. He probably wouldn’t even have to beg very hard. Eventually he sighed and got up, the bedsprings creaking and complaining.

“Have a good day Mr Barrow,” Jimmy grinned, and left a very confused under-butler staring after him.

Wash face, tidy hair, livery, collect glasses, set table, iron papers, sit down for breakfast.

Thomas sat opposite Jimmy, as he always did, with a casual “Morning Jimmy” and a warm smile. But this time around it was Thomas who poured Jimmy’s tea and Thomas who reached over Bates to find the toast before passing it to Jimmy. The dance had changed from a foxtrot to a waltz and Thomas was leading.

“You’re chipper this morning Mr Barrow,” Anna said.

“I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good day,” he replied with a smile, and a genuine one at that, not one of those horrible tight-lipped ones he threw around like curses when he was annoyed or unhappy.

A good day? Jimmy wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good day.

After the usual conversations over tea and toast it was; upstairs breakfast, his usual chores, and upstairs luncheon. He managed to keep his focus and absolutely didn’t come anywhere near spilling anything, sauce or otherwise, on Lady Rose, so thusly wasn’t dragged into Carson’s pantry to be chastised. He loitered in the corridor, pretending to be busy, and waited for Carson to leave. Once he’d gone, probably to find a bulb for his dodgy lamp, Jimmy snuck into the pantry. He ripped the evil lamp from the wall, opened one of the tiny lead-inlaid windows and chucked the whole thing out into the bushes, where it smashed with a satisfying clatter. Then, as nonchalantly as he could possibly manage after such wilful vandalism, he went in for his own lunch.

He hadn’t gotten as far as lunch before so he was cautiously optimistic.

He should’ve known better.

Thomas was halfway through his roast beef sandwich when he started to cough. It was fairly innocuous at first, so it took Jimmy a couple of seconds to register that something was wrong. Thomas started to make an awful gasping noise, like a whistling kettle combined with a dying animal, and slammed his hands down on the table, his blue eyes bulging.

“He’s choking!” Jimmy shouted, and suddenly all eyes were on the gagging under-butler, chairs squealing across the slated floor as people leapt to their feet. Jimmy didn’t waste time circling the long table to reach Thomas but rather clambered directly over the it, scattering plates and silverware and stepping on half a sandwich. He grabbed Thomas, one arm around his chest, bent him over roughly and slapped his back as hard as he dared; once, twice, three times, before Thomas took a shuddering, gasping breath and spat out the offending piece of roast beef. He sagged in Jimmy’s arms, breathing heavily.

“You’re alright,” Jimmy soothed, “I’ve got you.” The servants let out a collective sigh of relief.

Bates and Anna both helped Jimmy deposit a shaking Thomas into his chair whilst Mrs Hughes held up a glass of water for him to sip. Jimmy stood as close as he could without actually climbing into Thomas’s lap and rubbed reassuring circles on his back.

“Well done Jimmy,” Molesley said, “quick thinking saved the day there.”

 _Quick thinking, hyper-vigilance, and an foreboding sense of imminent doom, more like_ , he thought.

“Are you quite alright Mr Barrow, or should we call for Clarkson?” Carson asked. The old prig still managed to have an irritated tone as if he thought nearly choking to death was unseemly or ‘unbecoming to such a great house’ or some other drivel. Or perhaps he suspected this was all a scam derived by Thomas and Jimmy so they could cause a scene and get out of working for the day. That would be going a bit far, even by Jimmy’s work-shy standards.

Thomas opened his mouth but Jimmy knew he’d decline Clarkson, so he interrupted before Thomas could refuse.

“We’ll be needing the doctor,” Jimmy said, “better safe than sorry.”

“I suppose Mr Barrow can speak for himself,” Mrs Hughes chastised, “but in this case I’m inclined to agree.”

Carson harrumphed disagreeably, but left to telephone Dr Clarkson all the same.

“Thank you Jimmy,” Thomas said, “that was - you saved my life.”

Jimmy grimaced - if only he knew.

~

The upstairs lot still wanted their afternoon tea, despite the near-death incident downstairs, so Jimmy was forced to leave Thomas in Mrs Hughes’s care so he could go up and serve.

“Please don’t leave him alone until Clarkson has seen to him,” Jimmy pleaded.

Mrs Hughes looked at him suspiciously and Thomas protested that he was fine, but Jimmy wouldn’t give in until he had Mrs Hughes’s word.

“Heavens,” Mrs Hughes sighed, “whatever’s gotten into you James?”

“I’m just concerned for Mr Barrow, that’s all,” he lied.

Jimmy had never wished the upstairs lot ill exactly. He thought they were puffed up idiots and their way of life annoyed him, with all that money and privilege just because of the chance of their birth. But as their sort went, they weren’t a bad lot. And honestly, compared to Anstruther, it was a dream working for the Crawleys. To call the Dowager Lady Anstruther lecherous would be the understatement of the century and she’d started manhandling Jimmy from the day he’d entered her household. Being a young, naive lad, and an orphaned one at that, he’d not had the faintest idea what to do about her wandering hands except close his eyes and think of England. When he’d tried to leave she’d practically held him hostage with the threat of a bad reference and he’d only escaped when she decided to move abroad.

However, as Her Ladyship droned on to Edith in that insipid American lilt, His Lordship dozing on the chaise and punctuating the conversation with a dull word here or there - well, Jimmy seriously considered smashing the teapot over one of their heads. Even Branson just existing and quietly taking tea was irking him. Didn’t they know, or care, that Thomas had just practically shaken hands with death? That he could be about to fall down the stairs or electrocute himself or, god knows, impale himself on a candlestick, whilst they were merrily sipping tea and eating stupid tiny cakes off stupid chintzy plates in their stupid pretentious library full of highfalutin books they’d never read?

He needed to be with Thomas, keeping watch, and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Excuse me Milord,” Jimmy said, interrupting their conversation. If looks could kill, the one Carson shot Jimmy would’ve been genocide.

“Yes James?” Grantham replied jovially. He didn’t seem annoyed to have been intruded on, or else he was hiding it behind good manners.

“Milord, I wondered if I might be excused? Only - well, Mr Barrow isn’t well at all,” he exaggerated, “he nearly choked to death not fifteen minutes ago, and we are waiting for Doctor Clarkson and I,” Jimmy took a breath, “I’m awful worried like. I just want to check in, make sure he’s alright. You’ll still have Alfred and Mr Carson.”

Carson started, “James, this is not...” but Grantham waved him off.

“It’s alright Carson, his concern speaks well of him,” Grantham said, then turned to Jimmy; “You can go - send Barrow our regards and tell him to take the rest of the day off to recuperate.”

Jimmy almost ran out of the library, avoiding eye contact with Carson like he was the Medusa, and hurried down the servant’s staircase. Thomas was still in Mrs Hughes’s sitting room with Dr Clarkson - Mrs Hughes herself was standing in the corridor with Mrs Patmore, ostensibly waiting for Thomas, but most likely eavesdropping.

“Is he alright?” Jimmy asked, teetering on the edge of panic.

“He seems to be,” said Mrs Hughes, “but we’re still waiting on the Doctor’s opinion. Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

“His lordship excused me,” Jimmy said curtly. The door opened and a bemused Dr Clarkson waved them all inside. Thomas was shrugging on his livery and Jimmy rushed to help him into his jacket. He did up Thomas’s collar and white tie as the doctor spoke and Thomas silently studied Jimmy.

“I’ve checked Barrow over,” Clarkson said, “and he seems to be no worse for the experience, except for a bit of a bruise where Jimmy slapped his back.” He turned to Jimmy and said; “Well done, I’d say you saved Barrow’s life today.”

“I only did what anyone would do,” Jimmy said with unusual modestly.

“But it was you what did it, not _anyone_ ,” Thomas added, looking at Jimmy as if he was a puzzle to which he had finally found the solution.

“His Lordship said you could take the rest of the day off, to rest like,” Jimmy told Thomas, then said to Clarkson; “D’ya think he should be alone?”

“He’s probably perfectly fine,” Clarkson said, “but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone keep an eye on him.”

“I’m sure our _hero_ Jimmy would be up for that, wouldn’t you?” Patmore chuckled.

Jimmy knew he was being teased but ignored it; “Yes, I would actually.”

Thus, Thomas and Jimmy sat around the servants hall smoking and drinking tea for an hour, Thomas looking like he had something he wanted to ask the entire time.

Eventually Thomas said; “D’ya fancy a walk? I could do with some fresh air,” with an imploring look.

A walk. It sounded so benign but all Jimmy could think about were the probably hundreds of ways Thomas could accidentally die on a simple constitutional. But as he couldn’t come up with one, non-insane sounding reason to put Thomas off, except for checking if he felt well enough, he found he had to agree.

Thomas waved a hand; “I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”

So, they changed into their day suits, Thomas cutting a handsome figure in his bowler hat and Jimmy in his flat cap, and they walked towards the village.

Once they were out of sight of the Abby Thomas stopped and leaned on a low wall to light a cigarette. Jimmy joined him, stealing a smoke from Thomas’s pack.

“So,” Thomas said around his fag, “are you going to tell me how you knew I was in some kind of danger today?”

“I don’t - I don’t know what you mean,” Jimmy said, talking a long pull on his cigarette to avoid saying any more on the matter. Thomas wasn’t going to give in as easy as that though.

“This morning you came to my room and you were - well,” Thomas blushed and inclined his head, “not yourself. Then you begged me not to go down the grand staircase, like you were frightened I might have an accident, and you’ve been - well, _watching_ me all day.”

“I - er - I,” Jimmy pulled a face. What the hell was he supposed to say?

“And you practically dived over the table to stop me from choking, as if you were waiting for it to happen,” Thomas finished, “so what’s goin’ on Jimmy?”

“You’ll think I’ve gone loopy.”

“I might think that already,” Thomas replied.

Jimmy sighed - he might as well just say it; “I’m reliving the same day over and over.”

“I’ve been reliving the same day for nigh on fifteen years,” Thomas smirked.

“I don’t mean like, metaphorically,” Jimmy shook his head, “I’ve literally lived this day over and over. This is...err, the fourth time.”

“Bull,” Thomas said, and tossed his cig butt on the gravel. “This ain’t a penny dreadful. Be honest with me, for pity’s sake.”

“I am being honest - don’t you think I know how bloody mad I sound?” Jimmy said hotly. Thomas pushed off the wall and walked out into the road.

“Jimmy, do you think I’m an idiot?” Thomas gestured angrily. Jimmy scrubbed his hands over his face - it was going about as well as he’d expected. Neither man paid any heed to the approaching Thirsk-Downton bus as it trundled down the lane towards the village.

“Of course not,” Jimmy said, “but I don’t know what else to say. You’ve asked for the truth and here it is.”

Thomas just shook his head - he noticed his lace was untied and bent down to fix it. His hat tipped off his head as he leaned forwards; he reached for it and missed, stumbled a little and fell into the road just as the bus rounded the corner. There was a squeal of brakes and tires then an awful dull crunch.

“Thomas!” Jimmy shouted and he sprinted into the road. Thomas was half-under the bus, his face bloodied.

“Jimmy, ah, Jimmy,” he gasped, blood like rouge on his lips.

“No no no,” Jimmy cried, “no Thomas, not like _this_ ,” Jimmy grasped Thomas’s hand. The driver and several pale-faced passengers disembarked - someone was talking to Jimmy but he couldn’t make sense of it. One of the men sprinted off towards the village.

“Jimmy,” Thomas spluttered, even speaking an effort now, “I - I still...”

“I know,” Jimmy nodded, “shh, you’ll be alright, you’ll be alright.”

“I, I’m glad,” Thomas smiled, his teeth red, “this morning - I was so happy. Thank you.”

“Stay,” Jimmy petted Thomas’s hair and wiped blood from his cheek with his jacket cuff, “stay and I’ll do that again and more.”

“Don’t - don’t be sad,” Thomas said, “I got to love you.” He coughed violently, spattering Jimmy’s face and shirt with red droplets.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jimmy chanted, as if he could stop what was happening if he just apologised enough.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Thomas smiled, and then he was still.

Jimmy howled, his spirit as broken as Thomas’s body.

He was taken to the hospital in the ambulance with Thomas. Clarkson was kind enough and he let Jimmy wait in his office whilst he telephoned the Abbey and Branson himself drove down to collect him.

“Dear god, Jimmy,” Branson said, looking at his bloodied livery. He threw an awkward conciliatory arm around the footman’s shaking shoulders and guided him to the motor. “Let’s get you home.”

As they drove, Branson kept glancing over at Jimmy, like he was considering saying something but couldn’t quite decide if it was a good idea or not. Eventually he sighed, steeled himself, and said; “When I lost Sybil I felt like the very heart had been ripped out of me, like I couldn’t physically go on living without her. And I’m not sure I would have, if it hadn’t been for Sybbie.”

Jimmy didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t really know Lady Sybil and she’d died soon after he joined the household, but Thomas had always spoken highly of her.

“It’ll last a long time, this pain you’re feeling,” Branson continued. “I don’t think it ever goes away, not really, but it becomes bearable. To be honest part of me doesn’t want the pain to go completely - I don’t want to ever feel like I’ve forgotten her.”

“Thomas liked Lady Sybil and he always said what a lovely person she was, how she was so kind to everyone - even him. He cried in the servant’s hall the night Lady Sybil died,” Jimmy said.

“Did he now?” Branson replied with a wry smile. “Now that shows how good she was - not many have had the privilege of Thomas’s good opinion.”

 _I had it, and I wasted it,_ Jimmy thought.

“What would you do, if you could have one more day with her?” Jimmy asked, apropos of nothing.

Branson frowned, taken aback by the question. After some consideration he answered; “I’d spend the day telling her and showing her just how much I love her,” Branson smiled sadly, “I’m sure she knew it, but I wish I’d said it more. I don’t think you can ever say it too much, that you love someone. I shan’t make that mistake twice, if I’m ever lucky enough to love again that is.”

“I won’t be makin’ that mistake again neither,” Jimmy replied.

Once they were back at the Abbey it was the same old routine: tears; disbelief; and this time only talk of Grassby’s men, as Thomas was already in the hospital morgue.

Jimmy went straight to bed without speaking to anyone, lay down fully clothed, and waited for the morning.


	5. Alfred

It was an odd sort feeling to wake up when you weren’t certain you’d even been asleep, and even odder to be back in your pyjamas when you knew full well you’d been wearing your livery moments before.

At the six o’clock call Jimmy struggled out of bed with limbs of lead and trudged down the corridor to Thomas’s room. He entered without knocking, knowing he’d find Thomas undressed, and closed the door behind him.

“Jimmy? What the hell are you doing?” Thomas said, his voice sleep-rough, chest bare, trousered unbuttoned.

“Something I should’ve done ages ago,” Jimmy said. He closed the space between them in two strides - Thomas backed up to his dresser, afraid Jimmy was going to hit him. Jimmy grabbed Thomas’s face and mashed their lips together in a wholly unromantic kiss. Thomas was perfectly still, his breath heavy against Jimmy’s mouth.

“Jimmy, Jimmy,” he said against the footman’s lips, “stop.”

Jimmy pulled back - Thomas was looking at him with real concern, his pale eyes wide.

“You’re crying and shaking,” Thomas said, his hands on Jimmy’s arms, “whatever is the matter?”

“Oh,” Jimmy said, scrubbing at his face. He’d spent so much time in tears recently it had almost become his default state.

“I mean, this is lovely,” Thomas smiled softly, “rather unexpected but not unwelcome. But, you seem out of sorts. I wouldn’t want you to do something you’d regret later.”

“I regret everything later,” Jimmy said, “I seem to have a talent for making a mess of my life.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I - I am out of sorts,” Jimmy started, “something’s happened to me and - well, it’s made me reevaluate what’s really important in life. I’ve made so many mistakes when it comes to you - more than you know. And I didn’t want to make the mistake of not telling you how I feel.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, concerned, “you’d let me know if I could help, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, but you can’t. I promise to tell you about it sometime though.”

Thomas nodded, mollified.

“But I came here this morning to say,” Jimmy made sure to look into Thomas’s eyes then, “that I - I want you Thomas. I do. Truly.”

Thomas was silent for a long time, his usually stoic face a cascade of emotions.

“I - I can’t quite believe it,” Thomas said finally. He looked as if all the air had gone out of him. “What - What are you saying?”

“Remember when I told you I could never give you what you wanted?” Jimmy asked. Thomas nodded. “Well it wasn’t that I didn’t want to, I just - I was young and foolish and afraid. I couldn’t give you what you wanted because I couldn’t be different, I couldn’t be...lavender.”

Thomas pulled a disdainful face at that and Jimmy shook his head; “I didn’t mean nothing bad by it,” he said.

“Then you need to work on your delivery,” Thomas sniped, but his eyes were soft and wet with unspilled tears.

“I’m trying to say - well, I’ve always been, ugh,” Jimmy looked away, “I’ve always been like you. I was afraid so I tried to fight it. But Thomas - there’s no fighting this,” he gestured to them both, “and honestly, I don’t want to fight it anymore. I want to be with you. If you’ll have me - and I wouldn’t blame you if you threw me over or hit me or refused to speak to me ever again. But if you can forgive me for being a right awful hypocrite and if you still...you know...” Jimmy shrugged, suddenly out of words.

“I do,” Thomas said, his thumbs rubbing circles on Jimmy’s upper arms. “I love you still.”

“Thank god,” Jimmy said, almost collapsing against Thomas’s chest with relief. He kissed Thomas on the cheek and on the neck and on the mouth.

They were interrupted by a bang at the door and one of the hall boys calling out that it was six-thirty.

“Shite,” Thomas said, his hands still clasping Jimmy’s arms, “as much as I’d like to do this all day, we’re late.”

“Thomas,” Jimmy cupped the under-butler’s face in his hands and kissed him once more, “please, do one thing for me today will you?”

Thomas quirked an eyebrow.

“Not that,” Jimmy smirked, “just please stay off the grand staircase, no matter what.”

“...Alright,” Thomas replied. Apparently he was very easy to influence when besotted.

“And we’ll talk more later,” Jimmy added.

~

After the high drama of branding himself a flagrant degenerate, Jimmy had to nonchalantly go about his duties - collecting glasses, setting tables, ironing the papers. Not an easy task when he could still taste Thomas on his lips and feel his warm, bare skin under his hands and smell his pomade on his fingers.

If there was one thing Thomas had always managed to be, it was distracting, so that at least was fairly normal.

He sat down opposite Jimmy at the breakfast table and threw him one of those brilliant, honest smiles, his bright eyes crinkling at the edges. It made Jimmy’s stomach swoop and soar like a summer swallow and he wanted desperately to leap across the table, grab Thomas by the lapels of his livery and kiss him soundly. Jimmy briefly imagined the stunned horror on Carson’s face if he were to do so and smirked at the image - it would almost be worth getting sacked for, but not quite worth the stay in prison he might also land himself with if one of his colleagues was feeling particularly ungenerous.

Jimmy deliberately prodded Thomas’s thigh with his foot under the cover of the tabletop - Thomas caught Jimmy’s eye, smiled more broadly than Jimmy had ever seen, and poured them both a cup of tea. Jimmy was amazed - Thomas was completely cock-a-hoop over, well, _him_. God, he had to fix this never-ending day so he could make Thomas smile like that for always.

“You’re chipper this morning Mr Barrow,” Anna said.

“I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good day,” he replied with a cheerful grin - his eyes darted to Jimmy then back down at his toast. He extracted the plate of bacon from Mrs Hughes’s side and passed it to Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t remember a day when he had eaten anything other than breakfast; he forced himself to take a portion, despite being sick to the back teeth of it.

He was fed up of the same conversations over and over too:

Mrs Hughes would tell the housemaids about cleaning the small library this morning and then Bates would take Anna’s hand and wish her a good day and Alfred would ask Ivy if she’d show him the trick of how to make those perfect poached eggs and Daisy would come in a scold her for chatting and then Mrs Patmore would say “oh it’s the pot to the kettle is it?”

Then he’d have his conversation with Thomas:

“I must be getting old,” Thomas said quietly, “staying up last night has ruined me.”

“Just once I’d like to have a lie-in,” Jimmy replied, again, “or breakfast in bed.”

“What, like a married lady?” Thomas grinned.

Jimmy forced a pout and pretended to be put out at the comment. “Better than an old man,” he said.

“Cheeky sod,” Thomas smirked around his teacup.

Finally, Carson would arrive in and they’d all get up, the bell-board would start and breakfast would be over.

Serve upstairs breakfast, chores, upstairs luncheon, wilful vandalism of a lamp.

After the usual routine Jimmy went straight into the kitchens and idled by the wall, waiting to catch Mrs Patmore alone. Eventually Daisy went off to lay the table and the cook sent Ivy off on some errand. Mrs Patmore wheeled on Jimmy and waved her tea towel at him.

“Why are you hangin’ ‘round me kitchen then? Not ‘ere to cause more trouble are ya?” she said.

“I was, er, hoping to ask you for a favour,” he replied.

“You can ask,” she snorted, stirring a bubbling pan of something, “though why you think you deserve a favour from me I’ll never know.”

“S’not for me,” Jimmy replied, “its for Mr Barrow.”

Patmore stopped stirring and gave Jimmy a withering look.

“He’s been a bit down,” Jimmy lied, “and I wanted to do something nice for him. I - I think I owe him that much.”

“Yes, I’d say you do,” Patmore nodded.

“So maybe, well, please could we have a basket with some food?” Jimmy gave what he hoped was an endearing smile. “So we can have a,” he coughed, embarrassed, “private luncheon outside.”

Patmore stared at him for a long moment as if he was a particularly taxing mathematics question, then shook her head, the stray strands of her frizzy red hair that had escaped her cap bouncing wildly.

“You’re a strange one alright,” she finally replied, pointing her wooden spoon at him, “and maybe I’m a fool for helpin’ ya but, well, Mr Barrow could use a little somethin’ nice for once. But on one condition; you’ve gotta stop meddlin’ with Ivy and Daisy and Alfred, alright?”

“I appreciate it,” Jimmy said, “and - and I’m done with all that.”

“Are you now?” she gave Jimmy a worryingly knowing smirk. “Have you finally realised what’s good for ya then?”

Jimmy genuinely didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled for a non-committal shrug.

Patmore bustled around the kitchen, quickly wrapping sandwiches, pork pies, and scotch eggs in brown paper and slotting them neatly into a picnic basket. She added and handful of freshly baked shortbread, some strawberries that must have originally been bound for upstairs, and a bottle of homemade lemonade. Jimmy was amazed at how quickly she could make a meal appear - there was a reason she was in charge.

“Here,” she said, handing the basket to Jimmy, “and don’t worry about Mr Carson, I’ll sort that.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy said, a little touched by Mrs Patmore’s kindness. He ‘borrowed’ one of the older tablecloths and some glasses, took the basket outside and set up the picnic on the little table in the courtyard.

Jimmy managed to corner Thomas by the servant’s staircase; “Come with me for a minute, I’ve got something to show you,” he said, his hand on Thomas’s arm.

“Alright,” Thomas smirked, clearly thinking Jimmy had something indecent planned, and followed Jimmy outside to the table. He stood and stared for a moment at the tablecloth and the glasses and the picnic basket. “What’s this then?” he said.

“Lunch,” Jimmy sat down and started unpacking the food.

“I can see that,” Thomas said, “but - I mean - how? Why?”

“Sit down will ya,” Jimmy gestured to the bench opposite and Thomas sat with a huff. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke deliberately at Jimmy.

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” _and avoid you choking on roast beef sandwiches_ , “and I guess I’m indebted to Patmore for eternity now but - it was worth it.” Jimmy poured the lemonade and said, “I suppose this is - er, me _courting_ you.”

A blush coloured Thomas’s cheeks and he had to look away.

“I haven’t made a mistake have I?” Jimmy asked earnestly, “If this isn’t your sort of thing I can...”

“No, it’s not that,” Thomas interrupted - he looked fit to start crying any moment. “It’s - well it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me is all. And I don’t know what to say.”

“Say ‘thank you Jimmy, you’re wonderful’ and eat your scotch egg,” Jimmy said with a smirk.

Thomas grinned; “Thank you Jimmy, you’re awful,” and took a bite out of his egg.

They chatted easily over the sandwiches and pork pie, smoking and laughing, and for a few minutes Jimmy forgot about the horror of the past few days. Or rather the same day, every which way. Thomas was absolutely flabbergasted at the strawberries and grinned madly whilst eating them, his lips stained red. Jimmy wanted to kiss him and taste cigarettes and sharp fruit, but it was too risky out in the open.

“I don’t know what you said to Mrs Patmore to get these,” Thomas said, “did you promise her your firstborn child or something?”

“More fool her if I did - I’m not likely to have a firstborn child if I’m planning on living in sin with you,” Jimmy laughed. “And no, I just told her I wanted to do something nice for you, that I owed you as much, which is true.”

“I - I appreciate the sentiment,” Thomas smiled, “but be careful. She knows about me, I’m sure, and she’ll guess about you if you carry on like this.”

“I don’t much care,” Jimmy shrugged.

“You will do if you end up in prison,” Thomas shot back. “It’s a dangerous world for people like us Jimmy, and I don’t want you to get hurt by it.”

“And I could die tomorrow falling down the stairs,” Jimmy replied. “I’m _tired_ Thomas. I’m tired of trying to mould myself into someone the world can accept. I’ve been doing it my whole life and it’s nearly driven me mad.” _Well, maybe it_ has _driven me mad_ , he thought. “The only opinion I care about now is yours.”

Thomas smiled softly and said; “You’ve no worries there then.”

~

Whatever Mrs Patmore said to Carson must’ve worked as their absence at lunch wasn’t commented on. That afternoon Jimmy went about the rest of his duties feeling as light as air - surely he’d cracked it, surely he was going to win this time. When he made it all the way to serving upstairs dinner and Thomas was still alive and uninjured, he was on pins - the end was in sight.

The family, Mrs Crawly and old lady Grantham were assembled around the dining table. Lady Edith was droning on about her magazine article and Mary, still dressed in black all these months later, was being as awful to her as ever. Branson came to Edith’s support - Jimmy had never really thought much about Branson until the horrible bus incident and only really knew what Thomas had told him, although the under-butler wasn’t exactly reliable when it came to the erstwhile chauffeur. Branson had been kind enough to Jimmy when he was ostensibly grieving Thomas’s death, almost as if he’d know about Jimmy’s feelings for Thomas, so he’d gone up somewhat in Jimmy’s opinion. And he supposed he could support anyone who’d managed to go from nobody to being as rich as the king just by bedding the right person.

“I think it’s progressive of them to want female columnists,” Branson said, “and it’s a magazine for women isn’t it? Surely women have the best opinions on women’s issues?”

“Ladies shouldn’t have opinions,” the Dowager said, “unless their husbands tell them they can.”

Branson rolled his eyes but didn’t argue - engaging the Dowager in a debate was like trying to sweep back the ocean with a broom.

Thomas nodded his head slightly signalling that it was time to remove the accoutrements from the main course to make way for the pudding. Jimmy and Alfred made a round of the table collecting plates and silverware and Thomas followed behind, sweeping up the used wine glasses so Carson could pour the dessert wine.

Alfred loped over to the servery, his gangly arms full of dinnerware, only to trip on a ruche in the carpet and careen madly forwards, plates and knives clattering. Thomas stepped away from the table and into Alfred’s space - his hands were full of glasses so he used his elbow and forearm to steady Alfred’s ungainly frame. It worked; Alfred kept his balance and nothing was dropped or broken. When Thomas stepped back, his face was quizzical, a bloom of red on his shirt up near his ribs. For a moment Jimmy thought he’d just spilled the claret on himself until he saw the flash of silver - there was the handle of a dinner knife protruding from his chest, the blade lodged somewhere in his ribcage. Thomas reached down, confused, and pulled it out with an awful wet squelch.

“Oh god,” Alfred exclaimed as a jet of crimson splashed his livery, and all eyes turned towards the footman. Her Ladyship shrieked and Branson jumped out of his seat, taking Thomas by the arm and lowering him to the floor before he fell to it. Jimmy dumped his plates down with a crash of broken porcelain and raced to Thomas’s side. The room was filled with the deafening sound of chairs scraping back and panic-filled voices.

“Typical,” Thomas said to Jimmy, “I finally get you and then I get stabbed by bloody Alfred.”

“It were an accident, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to,” Alfred muttered over and over, horrified.

“Good God man,” His Lordship said, “Carson, telephone Clarkson immediately.”

“What can we do?” Mary asked.

“Pass me some napkins will ya?” Branson said; Edith obliged, her face white. Branson pressed them against Thomas’s chest to try and stem the flow of blood. Thomas coughed violently, spraying Branson and Jimmy with gore.

“Ah, Jimmy,” Thomas spluttered, bone-white fingers grasping Jimmy’s arm, “Jimmy I - I’m done for.”

“Don’t say that,” Jimmy replied, but he knew Thomas was right. They’d had the perfect day but this curse, or whatever it was, was determined to kill Thomas no matter what Jimmy said or did.

“Hang in there Thomas,” Branson added; his white-tie was surely ruined, destined to be forever blotted with Thomas’s blood like some revolting watercolour.

“Jimmy,” Thomas leaned towards him, his usually red lips now a bloodless white. “I, I’m glad - this morning - I was so happy. Thank you.”

“Thomas I’m so sorry,” Jimmy cried, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for,” Thomas smiled, and then he was still. Jimmy buried his face in Thomas’s neck and wept bitterly.

Tears. Disbelief. Goodbyes. Grassby’s men.

Again, Jimmy found himself in Mrs Hughes’s sitting room drinking sherry and letting himself be comforted by Mrs Patmore. She seemed much more concerned this time, as if she understood the gravity of Jimmy’s loss, and had wrapped a thickset arm around Jimmy’s shaking shoulders.

“Jimmy, Jimmy,” she said, “you’ll survive it, I promise you that.”

“I know,” Jimmy wept, “but I don’t _want_ to survive it. I can’t do this.”

The women exchanged worried looks.

“We were - _together_ ,” Jimmy said, knowing there’d be no repercussions come six o’clock. “After everything I put Thomas through, it turns out I’m just like him. I’m sorry if it’s shocking to you.”

“Not exactly shocking,” Mrs Hughes replied kindly, “but not something you should repeat outside these walls.”

“I’m - I’m an awful person, aren’t I? Is this my punishment? The recompense for my errors? I put him through hell and I’m the same, I’m a - a catamite,” Jimmy said.

“Oh lord,” Mrs Patmore muttered.

“And now he’s gone - he’s dead isn’t he? I can’t stop him from dying, I can’t stop it,” Jimmy felt himself unraveling. He’d done everything perfectly today, and yet here he was at the same conclusion. Thomas was dead.

Mrs Hughes shook her head; “I don’t think you’re being punished - the world is cruel sometimes Jimmy, and these things happen with no apparent rhyme or reason. No one has power over death,”

“I do,” Jimmy replied.

Both women shot him incredulous looks.

“You’ll think I’ve gone mad if I tell you what’s been happening to me. Perhaps I _have_ gone mad - why don’t you be the judge of that? I’ve been living the same day over and over and over and no matter what I do, Thomas always dies. He’s fallen down the stairs three times, been electrocuted by Mr Carson’s lamp, been run over by the Thirsk-Downton bus, and now he’s been stabbed by bloody Alfred. Yet every morning I wake up and he’s alive again. And I try to keep him alive, and I try to fix it but I can’t. I can’t fix it! It’s torture, is what it is, and if I’m not being punished by god, then what the hell is happening to me?” He put his head in his hands, overwrought.

Silence.

“Jimmy, shall we call Doctor Clarkson to come?” Mrs Hughes said. She spoke very softly, as if trying to calm a skittish horse.

“You’ve had a very bad day,” added Mrs Patmore, “I don’t think you know what you’re sayin’.”

“No, perhaps I don’t,” Jimmy replied. He didn’t know what he’d expected. “I’m going to bed. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine by the morning.


	6. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, sorry!

On the sixth version of the day Jimmy felt so mentally exhausted and so physically bone-tired, he begged off work completely. 

“You’re that ill?” Carson said, insinuating that he wasn’t. 

“Sorry,” Jimmy said and coughed a little for good measure. 

“Then I suppose we must cope without you,” Carson harrumphed. 

Jimmy crawled straight back into bed and slept away a good portion of the morning. He was finally woken by a quiet knock on his door; it was Thomas, with a tray of breakfast things. 

“Hello,” Thomas said, “can I come in?”

“Of course,” Jimmy said, sitting up in bed. “You’re always welcome.”

Thomas looked unconvinced but he entered, carefully placing the tray down so as not to spill the tea. 

“Breakfast in bed,” Thomas said, “like a married lady.” He frowned then, and said “Huh, déjà vu. Sorry it’s late, I was otherwise detained.”

“Oh?” Jimmy said, picking at his toast. He wasn’t really hungry, not for breakfast food at any rate. 

“Yes, I fell down the bloody stairs, in front of his Lordship and Lady Mary no less,” Thomas pulled up a chair and sat next to Jimmy’s bed. Jimmy blanched - if he didn’t intervene at all, the day seemed to revert back to its default. 

“I bet that hurt,” Jimmy replied flatly. He knew he was too late to stop today’s inevitable end this time. 

“My pride mainly,” Thomas replied then blinked, surprised. 

“Déjà vu again?” Jimmy said and Thomas nodded. 

“Well, I better get back to work,” Thomas said, “we can’t all skive off and stay in bed all day.”

After he left, Jimmy buried his face in his pillow and cried and cried and cried. 

Later came the inevitable knock - Mrs Hughes delivered the bad news. Tears, disbelief, goodbyes, Grassby’s men. 

Jimmy didn’t even get out of bed.


	7. A Night on The Tiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter to make up for the last one! I love all of you SO much for reading and giving kudos and commenting.

When the 6 o’clock call came Jimmy got up with a renewed sense of purpose. He would beat this goddamn _curse_ or whatever it was if it was the last thing he ever did. He had to, unless he wanted to literally spend forever repeating the day.

Or perhaps he would only be allowed a certain amount of do-overs before he was stuck with a particular outcome. The possibility of ending up with Thomas permanently dead after all his efforts to keep him alive filled his bones with a heavy dread.

He went through the tried-and-tested morning routine of going straight to Thomas’s room and begging him to avoid the grand staircase, before seeing to his morning chores. He’d decided to save the homosexual revelations until later, as it was frustrating and oddly exhausting having to confess his inversion over and over, ad infinitum.

Jimmy ate his breakfast for the seventh time - he’d heard the conversations over the table so often now he could repeat them in his mind, like the lyrics to a favourite song. Honestly, it was beginning to drive him a bit loopy and it was a challenge to keep his face neutral as the staff droned on and on and on.

Then it was: serve upstairs breakfast, chores, upstairs luncheon, wilful vandalism of a lamp, stop Thomas choking, more chores.

Jimmy was on tenterhooks waiting for Alfred’s inevitable stumble during upstairs dinner. When the moment came, he made sure to position himself between Alfred and Thomas, so the under-butler would have no chance of stepping in. Whilst it might be unkind to let Alfred make a fool of himself, even miserable old Carson would agree that letting Alfred fall and break a pile of the best china was preferable to Thomas dying.

Well, _maybe_.

Finally the moment arrived; Alfred, lolloping idiot that he was, tripped on the carpet and teetered forwards with his arms full of breakables. Thomas made to help him but Jimmy stepped in the way and surreptitiously grabbed the under-butler’s elbow. Thomas kept silent but shot him a quizzical look as Alfred went crashing down in a deafening rain of porcelain and glass.

Silence, as all eyes turned on Alfred and his considerable mess. His face had surpassed his hair for redness.

“Oops,” Jimmy said with a grin and Lady Mary laughed out loud, probably for the first time since the horrible business with Mr Matthew.

“Are you quite alright Alfred?” Lady Cora said, suppressing a snigger. She was either too kind or well-bred to laugh aloud at Alfred’s misfortune.

“I think so Milady,” Alfred replied meekly from his prone position. “Nothing damaged ‘cept plates and glasses.”

With the reassurance that Alfred was unharmed the table erupted into an uproar of laughter. Jimmy couldn’t help but chuckle - Alfred could do with being knocked down a peg or two, especially in front of Carson. Thomas smirked at him, knowing Jimmy’s part in Alfred’s downfall.

Only Carson remained, as ever, unamused. “I am very sorry you had to witness this debacle Milord. Alfred, as you are uninjured, I suggest you start clearing up this mess,” he commanded. “And Thomas, James, stop that nonsense and _help him_.”

After the mess was sorted and dinner was completed, Carson all but dragged Jimmy and Thomas into his pantry and started dressing them down in his typical holier-than-thou fashion.

“What on earth came over you two? Standing there and _laughing_?” Carson demanded, as if it were some crime for them to do so.

Thomas and Jimmy exchanged a beleaguered look.

“But it were _Alfred_ who...” Jimmy started, but Carson held up his hand dismissively.

“James, as I was present in the dining room for the ignominious incident, I am fully aware of the circumstances of Alfred’s unfortunate accident. What I do not understand, however, is why you and Mr Barrow felt it was acceptable to turn into a pair of gibbering buffoons?!” Carson’s eyebrows had taken on a life of their own and were dancing their way closer towards his receding hairline with every word. “It is not becoming of staff employed by this household to find anything that happens upstairs _funny_!” Jimmy was always amazed at the Butler’s ability to use a hundred words to say something that needed only a dozen.

The twist of Thomas’s mouth betrayed him; he was trying, and failing, to disguise an impertinent smirk.

“Sorry Mr Carson,” Jimmy said, contrite. As always, it was best to just apologise to the uppity old git and get it over and done with. Jimmy had plenty of practice in that regard; he was never going to be Carson’s favourite protégée, no matter how much more handsome and competent he was than that ninny Alfred. Honestly though, he didn’t give two hoots about Carson’s opinion beyond the fact that as the man controlled the hiring and firing, it was necessary to keep oneself in his good graces.

Jimmy _was_ Thomas’s favourite though, and one day soon Thomas would be the butler. Then they’d have a right good time of it.

If Jimmy could keep Thomas alive long enough.

Thomas coughed, schooled his face into a neutral expression and said with false pleasantness; “It won’t happen again Mr Carson.”

“I should think not,” Carson said, mollified, “and tomorrow you’ll both have plenty of time to consider your behaviour as all the silver could do with a thorough going over.”

“Yes Mr Carson,” they both chanted, errant schoolboys under Carson’s glare.

When they were finally released they slipped outside for a conciliatory smoke.

“Why is it that even though it were Alfred what made the bloody mess, we were the ones what ended up gettin’ it in the neck from old Carson?” Jimmy said, blowing out smoke in a cross little plume like he was a kettle about to hit a roiling boil. “And to top it off we’re gettin’ punished for his cock up!” Although it was hard to be too angry about a punishment he’d only have to face if tomorrow actually ever came.

“Imagine how he’d have reacted if he knew you could’ve saved the great lummox, but didn’t,” Thomas replied.

“I’d likely still be in there, and they’d be able to hear his shouting in York.”

“Why did you let him fall?” Thomas asked, “Was it just to be obnoxious?”

“Why did _you_ want to help him?” Jimmy retorted.

They stared at each other for a moment, then broke into guffaws.

“This has been an odd sort of day,” Thomas said, still smirking.

“If only you knew,” Jimmy replied, then added; “we’re friends aren’t we?”

“For my part, yes,” Thomas said, then suddenly pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and sucked his breath through his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Jimmy dropped his half-smoked cigarette, his heart in his mouth. He’d managed to prevent anything bad from befalling Thomas all day, but if the man was going to have an aneurism or something, well Jimmy didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do about that.

“Just - ah,” he rubbed his head and blinked, “I had such a strange feeling, like I’d lived this before or dreamed it and then my head - it felt like it was going to split open.”

Jimmy took hold of Thomas’s face, looked him over and stared into his eyes, though he didn’t have a clue what he was looking for. He doubted he’d be able to actually see if Thomas’s brain was turning to slop.

“I’m alright now,” Thomas bit out, squirming under the intensity of Jimmy’s examination, “what is it with you today?”

Jimmy let his hands fall to Thomas’s shoulders, fingering the seams of his livery. Thomas looked vaguely uncomfortable at being backed against the wall with Jimmy crowding into his space. For a moment Jimmy couldn’t remember if he’d told Thomas about his feelings for him or not. He was starting to get his versions of the day mixed up.

“I’m just - there’s things I want to tell you but god, I don’t know where to start,” Jimmy said.

“You could start with why I wasn’t allowed to walk down the grand staircase?” Thomas said, “And end with why you’ve suddenly become so much more...” his eyes dropped to Jimmy’s hands where they were resting on his shoulders, “tactile.”

Jimmy took a deep breath. He had two choices - a lie, which Thomas would undoubtedly notice, or the truth, which he might or might not believe. He had nothing to lose by telling the truth. Even if Thomas was angry or thought him mad, the consequences would be erased with the six o’clock call.

“Alright,” Jimmy said finally, “just let me get it all out before you say anything, ok?”

Thomas nodded.

“I’ve lived this day before and I’ve seen you die - lots of times, in lots of ways. Too many ways. You fell down the stairs three times. You were electrocuted by Carson’s lamp. You nearly choked to death. You were run over by the Thirsk-Downton bus. You stopped Alfred from falling and he accidentally stabbed you with a dinner knife - that was the latest one. That’s the real reason why I wouldn’t let you help him this evening. I had to stop it happening again. I keep living and reliving this day, I keep watching you die, and,” he disguised a hitched breath with the back of his hand, “it’s killin’ me Thomas. I’m going out of my mind with it.”

Thomas was silent for a long time - they were standing so close that Jimmy could see his jaw working minutely and how the moonlight turned the flecks of silver in his blue-grey eyes into a thousand stars.

“I dreamed it,” Thomas finally replied, “I thought I’d dreamed it. The stairs. The lamp. The bus. Alfred and the knife. This evening, when he fell and you stopped me, it all came flooding back - I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to think except it must have been a dream. Then, just now when you asked me if we were friends, I suddenly remembered the same conversation happening but different places and times, like strange echoes of each other. Sort of like a reoccurring dream.”

“Not a dream,” Jimmy grasped Thomas’s shoulders desperately, “a nightmare. A nightmare, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded; “And there’d be no way for you to know about it if I’d merely dreamed it, would there?”

“You believe me?” Jimmy was shaking. Oh, what a relief it would be to have Thomas working with him instead of constantly having to lie and finagle his way through the day.

“I thought I dreamed some other things too,” Thomas looked away, a blush crawling up his neck and colouring his cheeks. “Some things I thought could only ever be in dreams.”

“Those were real too,” Jimmy said and he quickly pressed his lips to the corner of Thomas’s mouth to make his point. Thomas caught Jimmy’s lips with his own and they kissed for a long moment, hands wrinkling the fabric of sleeves and crushing lapels. Jimmy would have to press his livery, if tomorrow ever came.

“You probably don’t remember, but I’ve told you I want you more than once,” Jimmy said, finally pulling back.

“I remember,” Thomas gave a half-smile, “but I thought it was just my mind showing me what I wanted to see.”

“You have to help me save you - if we can keep you alive until 6 o’clock in the mornin’ I’m sure things will go back to normal.”

“It’s very much in my interest to not die,” Thomas replied dryly, “so I’ll do whatever I can. But if I do die and you have to live the day again, I might not remember this. Or I might think it a dream.”

“Then I’ll convince you again, now I know it can be done.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Thomas said, “something I’ve never told anyone, something you couldn’t possibly know. That way you’ll be able to convince me you’re telling the truth if I have doubts.”

“Good idea,” Jimmy nodded. He’d never have thought of it himself.

“My Da used to have this clock shop where he repaired broken watches and clocks and that, and I used to help out, mainly cleaning and taking deliveries. Sometimes when he were in a decent mood he’d show me how to repair things or how to do the books. When he were in a less decent mood, or when he’d been at the whiskey...” Thomas looked away, his hands tight on Jimmy’s biceps, “he’d take his belt to my bare arse until I couldn’t walk or sit without weeping.”

Jimmy frowned; his own father had been strict but loving, and only ever raised his hand to Jimmy once or twice in his whole childhood when frankly, he’d deserved it. He’d always been a lippy little shite.

“Where was your Ma in all this?” he asked.

“Too afraid to say anythin’ when she were alive, then unable to say anythin’ once she’d died,” Thomas replied. “At any rate, Da weren’t my best friend even before...before he found out.”

Jimmy didn’t need Thomas to elaborate - there was only one thing he could be talking about. He rubbed his hands up and down Thomas’s arms in hope of comforting him.

“When I were fourteen we used to get these regular deliveries of spare parts and grease and other bits for repairing clocks and that, and I used to help the lad bring ‘em in and check the inventory,” Thomas said, “an’ the lad - Freddie Hobbs - and I got pally like. Then Freddie started hanging around when he didn’t have any deliveries to make. It were nice, for a while, to have a...friend. Until my Da caught us kissing behind the shed, Freddie’s hand up my shirt, my hand somewhere even less appropriate.” Thomas grimaced at the memory.

“Shite,” Jimmy said, for lack of anything more eloquent to say.

“Thats about the measure of it,” Thomas replied. “If he normally took his belt to me when I hadn’t done nothing wrong, you can imagine what he did when he found out I was a...Sodomite. I left that night without so much as a goodbye and eventually I managed to get a job as hall boy, even though I hadn’t a reference. I lied and said I was orphaned and the butler took pity on me.” Thomas sighed and sagged against Jimmy’s hands. “So now you know something no-one else does.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me that, I feel like I know you better for it.” Jimmy leaned in and kissed Thomas’s flushed lips.

“I feel like I don’t know you at all still, even after all this time,” Thomas said against Jimmy’s mouth, “I mean, this, for a start. It’s not unwelcome but it’s definitely unexpected.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, once we’ve fixed,” he gestured vaguely, “this. Only I don’t much fancy having to repeat my darkest secrets over and over again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Thomas kissed Jimmy once more for good measure.

“If you remember to,” Jimmy replied.

They ate a supper of pie and mash - Jimmy was thrilled to have something different as he’d never made it as far as supper before. Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes off Jimmy for more than a minute but honestly, it was mutual, so they spent most of the meal in awkward eye contact and bashful blushes.

It was a mercy when supper was finally over and they could retire to their usual corner by the fire, Thomas is his favourite rocking chair and Jimmy perched on a dining chair he’d pulled up as close as he dared without seeming inappropriate. Jimmy couldn’t shake the image of the first time he’d found Thomas - he had been in that very rocking chair, dead and cold and still. So persistent was the awful memory that Jimmy had to keep finding excuses to lean in and touch Thomas; pointing to something in the paper, stealing a cigarette, dusting off his shoulder, straightening his tie.

Eventually Thomas announced; “Well, I’m going up.” He said; “Night all,” but his eyes were on Jimmy.

Jimmy took the hint - he waited ten minutes for good measure and thrashed Alfred at a hand of cards, then followed Thomas upstairs. He undressed and hung up his livery with trembling hands, dressed in his pyjamas and let himself into the under-butler’s room.

Thomas was sitting on the edge of his bed in his undershirt and plaid pyjama bottoms, his leather-gloved hand pressed into the thin mattress, his right holding a burned-down cigarette. He was startled by Jimmy’s unannounced entrance, a column of ash falling from his cig and scattering across the floorboards.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

“I was just bein’ _circumspect_ ,” Jimmy replied. He sat next to Thomas, a good deal closer than would be considered decent, and stole the dog-end of his cigarette.

“Jimmy, what if I die and stay dead?” Thomas asked, “Perhaps that’s what’s supposed to happen?”

Jimmy shook his head resolutely; “No, it can’t be - why would time keep resetting if you were supposed to stay dead?”

“Why you though?” Thomas said, thinking aloud. “Why have you been chosen for this test, or curse or whatever?”

Jimmy was quiet for a moment then he said; “Because I’ve got a lot of makin’ up to do, haven’t I? For the way I’ve treated you.”

“So this is what? Your punishment?”

Jimmy nodded tightly and Thomas’s eyes went wide.

“Oh Jimmy no, you don’t deserve to be punished,” Thomas said and he took Jimmy’s hand. “Being scared and confused about who you are is no sin. The world’s not kind to our sort, I can’t blame you for not wanting to admit it.”

“You never can see the bad in me, can you?” Jimmy replied. “I wonder what it is you see in me that no one else can, not even myself?”

Thomas sighed and looked away, then said softly; “You. I see who you really are Jimmy.”

“Oh,” Jimmy said, finally understanding. He reached out and fingered Thomas’s jaw, tilting his face towards him, the low glow of the lamp casting pools of shadow in the hollows of his cheeks. He kissed Thomas affectionately, his hands encircling the under-butler’s face. Thomas placed his gloved hand gently on the back of Jimmy’s neck - warm leather, hot skin - and held him so tenderly it made Jimmy embarrassed and overjoyed all at once.

Jimmy, handsome as he was, had experienced his fair share of kisses - all with women, of course. And they’d been, well, _fine_. Not earth shaking, nor the sort of thing one might compose soppy poetry about, but it had always been nice, if a little uninspiring. But with Thomas, there was something bordering on reverent in the way he kissed him. Jimmy supposed the difference was that Thomas really knew him and still loved him, which no other ever had.

“It’s been awful,” Jimmy sighed, letting himself sag into Thomas’s arms and resting his head in the crook of Thomas’s neck. “Watching you die - I don’t think I’d ever get used to it even if I was stuck in this damnable Tuesday for a thousand years.”

Thomas petted his hair. “I’m glad I don’t remember it clearly. I’m sure seeing my own multiple deaths would do something unpleasant to my mind.”

Jimmy snorted; “Your mind’s already unpleasant enough,” and Thomas huffed out a laugh. “In all seriousness though,” Jimmy added, “I don’t know how much more my mind can take. I already feel...like I’m coming undone.”

“I’m sorry this has happened to you,” Thomas said as he kissed Jimmy’s forehead and his temples. “Though it’s hard to be too sorry when it’s ended with you in my bedroom.”

“Tell me you love me,” Jimmy said against Thomas’s neck, “tell me that and I can do anything then, knowing I have your love still.”

“Always Jimmy,” Thomas replied, “I love you and I always will.”

They sat together for a long time - Jimmy couldn’t say for certain how long, but long enough that his back ached a little from the way he had twisted to embrace Thomas. It was the under-butler who eventually broke their embrace with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” Thomas said, “but nature calls. I drank four cups of tea before I came up. And you should try and get some sleep.”

Jimmy shook his head. “We’ve made it so far this time, I’m not leaving.”

“Alright,” he shrugged, “but I still have to go to the bathroom.”

Whilst Thomas answered nature’s annoying call, Jimmy prodded around Thomas’s room, pulling random books from his small shelf and fingering the trinkets on his bureau. He helped himself to one of Thomas’s cigarettes and only realised how long Thomas had been gone when he dumped the dog-end into the old, chipped teacup that served as an ashtray.

It dawned on him that he’d made a grave mistake in letting Thomas go to the bathroom alone; the bathroom was full of _ridiculous_ ways to die.

Jimmy crept along the men’s corridor like a thief, the old house silent and dark as a tomb at this late hour, until he reached the bathroom door.

“Thomas?” Jimmy hissed, as loudly as he dared. Nothing. He tried the handle and found the door unlocked - it swung open to reveal the unlit bathroom, the soft moonlight luminous on the porcelain tiles. Thomas was on the floor, his pale face a perfect match for the white enamel of the bathtub, his eyes wide and glassy like one of Miss Sybbie’s china dolls. There was a single smear of bright-red like an exclamation mark that ran from the rim of the tub and down one side, ending in a pool under Thomas’s head.

They’d been so close. It just wasn’t _fair_.

For the first time Jimmy felt something like anger filling his chest. He walked over to the mirror and threw a sharp punch, smashing the mottled silver surface into a million pieces and splitting his knuckles in the process. The pain in his hand brought Jimmy back to his senses. He sank down to his knees, anger fading to the familiar sting of grief, and crawled over to Thomas.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lying down next to the under-butler without a care for how the blood would surely seep into his pyjamas. “I’m sorry I can’t make this better. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve caught up with myself here but the next two chapters are like 75% done so it shouldn’t be too long until I can publish!


	8. Freddie Hobbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a whole chapter, scrapped it and wrote this instead o_O so here it is!

Jimmy spent the next four loops watching Thomas die in increasingly ridiculous ways. He was crushed by the linen closet. He drowned in the bath. He fell out of the attic window. And, strangest of all, he was accidentally poisoned by a hysterical Daisy.

It was becoming impossible to manage all the dangers - as soon as Jimmy pinched off one leaking vein, another tore itself open.

The one constant was Thomas himself - Jimmy found he could trigger the déjà vu and it’s accompanying headache with the ‘friendship’ conversation, and a mention of _Freddie Hobbs behind the shed_ was usually enough to convince Thomas they hadn’t both gone insane. How much Thomas remembered of the previous loops seemed to swing drastically between only a vague sense of déjà vu and full-on flashbacks. It was always a relief when it was the latter and he didn’t have to spend an hour explaining everything.

And during those more cognizant loops, Thomas and he were able to carry out a two-steps-forward, one-step-back sort of love affair. Jimmy had never kissed one person for the first time so many times, but he found he still thrilled at it even when he’d lost track of how many times he’d relived the moment.

Despite the constant horror Thomas had stayed relatively calm, perhaps because he thankfully wasn’t party to the awful, repeated sight of his corpse, as Jimmy was. Jimmy, on the other hand, was starting to unravel a little more with each six o’clock call.

When one of his lordship’s shotguns went of without even being touched and hit Thomas square in the chest, well, Jimmy felt himself slide from _barely-coping_ to _completely-off-his-rocker_ in one smooth movement. It was akin to clinging on to a cliff edge for hours with aching arms and bloodied fingertips, only to eventually make peace with the situation and calmly let go into a certainly-fatal free fall.

Jimmy was definitely in free fall.

Knowing there would be no repercussions come the next six o’clock call, Jimmy took the opportunity to firstly punch Alfred in his stupid, freckled face. On the next pass he stood in the centre of the servant’s hall and told Carson what an uppity, irritable, miserable old git he really was. That had been so incredibly cathartic it was worth getting thrown out on his ear, even if it meant he missed how Thomas died that time.

Memorably, during one loop he had jumped on the upstairs dining table and danced the Charleston until Alfred, Thomas and Carson had manhandled him down. The Dowager had simply stated she hadn’t been expecting a show with dinner and Jimmy had laughed until he thought he might throw up. They’d called Clarkson that time and as the loop ended with him being heavily sedated, he never found out what befell Thomas.

One morning he simply walked out of the Abbey, sat down in a field and got absolutely blotto on an insanely expensive-looking bottle of Scotch he’d stolen on his way out. It had been Thomas who’d found him, on his back, three sheets to the wind, singing _Ain’t Misbehavin’_ to himself.

Thomas fell on the empty Scotch bottle and bled out in Jimmy’s drunken arms.

Failure, death, failure, death, rinse and repeat _ad infinitum_.

~

Jimmy sat down at the table for what he thought was his seventeenth breakfast. That morning he’d sloppily kissed Thomas awake before begging him to avoid the grand staircase. Thomas has been soft and warm and pliant under Jimmy’s lips and Jimmy had felt himself break at the thought of never being able to have a proper relationship with the man.

Thomas took the seat opposite Jimmy at the breakfast table and threw him one of those brilliant, honest smiles, his bright eyes crinkling at the edges. Jimmy forced himself to smile back through gritted teeth and poured them both a cup of tea.

“You’re chipper this morning Mr Barrow,” Anna said _again_. Had her voice always been so whiny and irritating? To Jimmy it was akin to nails being dragged down a blackboard.

“I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good day,” Thomas replied with a cheerful grin, passing Jimmy the plate of bacon. Jimmy politely refused; the smell alone made him want to vomit into his teacup. What even was a good day? Jimmy was pretty sure they didn’t exist. Just this same, godforsaken day over and over again.

The conversations around the table carried on as normal - of course, Jimmy knew exactly what everyone was about to say, word for bloody word. He knew when each knife or fork would clatter to each plate, every slurp of a teacup, every scape of each chair against the tiles, the exact moment each bell would jangle on the bell board. If he had to hear it all once more he’d stab someone with a teaspoon.

Mrs Hughes opened her mouth to speak and, without thinking, Jimmy interrupted; “Mrs Hughes would like the housemaids to give the small library a thorough going over this morning, wouldn’t you Mrs Hughes?”

Mrs Hughes did a sort of double-take - she wasn’t easily flustered but having Jimmy take the words out of her mouth had done the trick.

“Yes Jimmy, I would,” she said with a frown, “though I’m not sure how you knew it.”

“Oh, I’m intuitive like that,” Jimmy replied. He turned to Anna and said spitefully; “Mr Bates wishes you’ll have a good day. You won’t.”

Bates and Anna exchanged confused looks but Jimmy didn’t give them time to respond, instead turning his attention on Alfred’s witless flirting with Ivy. He could see Thomas trying to catch his eye, a worried expression on his face.

“Ivy, Alfred wants you to show him how to make poached eggs because for some reason he thinks that’s a skill he should have, though I’m not sure how he’s planning on bein’ a chef if he don’t even know how to boil water. Seeing as he fancies you right good an’ proper, even though you’d more likely kiss Molesley’s backside than date _him_ , it’s probably just an excuse to hang ‘round you like a mopey, ginger fly around the meat store,” Jimmy said with a cheerful sort of hatred.

“Oi!” Alfred gaped. Ivy flushed, her cheeks so hot she could use them to cook Alfred’s bloody eggs. Daisy had walked in mid-diatribe and was looking between Jimmy, Alfred and Ivy, absolutely flabbergasted.

“James!” Carson scolded, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Yes, I do believe I have,” Jimmy replied. He stood up suddenly and sent his chair clattering back against the slated floor. “And, y’know what Mr Carson? I’m sick of always being in your bad books, no matter what I do - and trust me, I’ve had enough tries at getting it right. So you can bloody well stick it up your jumper, you miserable old dictator.”

An audible intake of breath as every eye in the servant’s hall simultaneously turned on Jimmy.

Silence.

“Yes,” Jimmy said with a vindictive smile. “In fact, you can all stuff it as far as I’m concerned. Especially you Alfred, you great ginger tosser.” A bright red blush rose from Alfred’s neck all the way up his face like the mercury in some lanky human thermometer. “It’s all a load of bollocks anyway - serving tea an’ scraping’ an’ curtsyin’ for those uppity, spoiled gits upstairs. It’s meaningless is what it is, when you could drop dead tomorrow - it’s meaningless and stupid and empty and - and I bloody hate it! I bloody hate _them_ and I hate the lot of _you_ an’ all. Except you Thomas,” he turned his attention on the under-butler. Thomas’s face was a bloodless white, his eyes saucer-wide. “You’re the only one of this sorry lot what’s worth a damn, and I don’t care who knows it.”

Silence again. Jimmy looked at the sea of scandalised faces - Carson on the verge of having a heart attack - and he couldn’t help himself; he giggled. The giggle grew uncontrollably into a guffaw and before he knew it he was doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down his face.

“I’ve - _ha_ \- I’ve finally - _heh_ \- I’ve lost it!” he strained out between laughs. “You win! You bloody win! You’ve driven me mad!” He dropped to his knees, his laughs segueing into sobs, and suddenly Thomas was there, his face tight with worry, his arm around Jimmy’s shaking shoulders.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, s’alright,” Thomas said, “it’s going to be alright.”

Jimmy clutched Thomas like a man drowning. “No it’s not, it’s not alright. I’ve gone _loopy_ , I have,” Jimmy said between sobs.

“Call Doctor Clarkson at once,” Mrs Hughes instructed Carson with calm authority. The butler himself was red-faced and opened his mouth to argue, but Mrs Hughes silenced him with a look. Jimmy was vaguely aware of Bates hurriedly shooing the rest of the dumbfounded staff from the servant’s hall as if he were an unexploded mortar who might go off at any moment.

“You’re not well love,” Thomas soothed, “but it’s alright. I’m going to look after you.”

“I’m most definitely not well,” Jimmy nodded, “I’m so bloody _tired_ and I’m so bloody _sorry_.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry to me about,” Thomas said.

Mrs Hughes crouched down beside them, her face full of worry. “Jimmy dear, why don’t you come into my sitting room? We can have a nice cup of tea whilst we wait for the Doctor.” Her voice was so soft and full of kindness that Jimmy almost felt guilty for his display. Not that it mattered; it would all be erased at the six o’clock call. This curse had just gone to prove how little Jimmy’s actions mattered at all.

~

They waited quietly in Mrs Hughes’s sitting room for Clarkson, their cups of tea untouched and cold by the time the Doctor arrived. Thomas stayed very close to Jimmy, like he was trying to shield him with his proximity, whilst Mrs Hughes did her best to explain the situation.

“I’m going to prescribe James a mild sedative,” Clarkson said finally, talking to Thomas and Mrs Hughes as if Jimmy wasn’t there. “It’ll help him to stay calm, but what he really needs is some rest. He’s had what we call a mental break - “

“You’ll not send him away to some madhouse,” Thomas interjected, his jaw tight. Jimmy could almost feel the anxiety rolling off him.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Clarkson replied. “But James need someone to talk to about what’s caused him to feel this way and - “

“It’s Jimmy,” Jimmy broke in rudely, “I bloody hate James. And stop talkin’ about me as if I’m not here.”

“Of course, I’m sorry Jimmy,” Clarkson mollified. “You’ll need to rest for a while and to talk openly about how you feel. I know of a specialist who I can call for advice, but until then is there someone here you trust?”

Jimmy immediately looked to the under-butler; “Thomas - if he wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course I’ll help you Jimmy,” he replied, “if I can be spared?”

Mrs Hughes nodded solemnly; “His Lordship won’t mind at all, I’m sure.”

~

Thomas escorted Jimmy to his room - he was quiet the whole way there, obviously disturbed by the morning’s events. The sedative Clarkson has given Jimmy was doing it’s job and it was hard to even organise his thoughts enough to worry. He felt like he was floating two inches above the floor, his head a woolly ball of candy floss.

Thomas helped Jimmy into his pyjamas with the cool professionalism of an ex-valet, and deposited him into bed, fussing over the thin pillows. When he was sure Jimmy was comfortable he pulled up a chair up and sat down, his watchful eyes on the footman the entire time. “You seem a bit calmer now,” he noted.

“Clarkson’s little present,” Jimmy shrugged, “s’doin’ its job alright.”

“Good,” Thomas nodded, pulling out two cigarettes and lighting them. He handed one off to Jimmy and stuck the other between his unhappy lips. A long moment of silence, Thomas’s slate-grey eyes on Jimmy’s slightly-unfocused blue ones. “Are you going to explain or am I supposed to guess?”

“You’d never guess it in a million years,” Jimmy smirked around his cigarette, not caring that it ashed over his bedspread. “D’ya want me to do charades?”

Thomas was not amused; “It’s not a joking matter Jimmy.”

“It’s alright Thomas, it’ll be gone by the morning.”

Thomas stilled; “What do you mean?”

“Oh - just that none of this will matter by the morning,” Jimmy shrugged.

Thomas took a fierce grip on Jimmy’s arm, his touch grounding Jimmy like a lightning rod.

“Don’t say things like that,” Thomas bit out, misunderstanding, “don’t, alright? You’re going to be fine and you’re going to stay with me and I’m going to look after you and you’ll get better. You will. I did wonder this morning if everything was alright.” He looked away, his face pinched with unhappiness.

Jimmy suddenly remembered the Lieutenant Thomas had treated during the war - the one who’d taken a razor to his wrists.

“Oh Thomas, no, I’m not going to do _that_.”

“Promise me,” Thomas said, “I couldn’t bear it Jimmy.”

“I promise,” Jimmy said. He knew too well the pain of seeing the love of your life die before you. He knew it better than any person alive ever had.

Thomas nodded tightly. “Alright. Then tell me what this is all about.“

“Freddie Hobbs,” Jimmy replied.

Thomas blinked. “S’cuse me?”

“Freddie Hobbs, he used to deliver to your Da’s clock shop,” Jimmy repeated. “Your dad caught you together. You left home ‘cause of it.”

“I don’t - I don’t understand what’s goin’ on Jimmy,” Thomas said. “How do you know that?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Jimmy asked, knowing what the phrase would trigger in Thomas.

“For my part, yes,” Thomas said, then instantly pressed the heels of both his hands against his eyes, and bit his lip against the pain. “Jimmy?” he exclaimed, reaching out blindly and grasping the edge of Jimmy’s bed to stop himself from falling out of his chair.

“Thomas - it’s ok, it’ll pass, it’ll pass,” Jimmy said, holding Thomas steady by his shoulders.

“Ah - Jimmy!” Thomas cried out as he collapsed forwards, shaking violently like he was caught in some sort of seizure. Jimmy clutched Thomas beneath his arms and hauled him on to the bed, the covers twisting beneath Thomas’s writhing form.

“Thomas, Thomas, what’s wrong?” Jimmy asked, panic like ice in his veins, but Thomas couldn’t hear him - he stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes as a trickle of blood began to flow from each nostril, impossibly red against the pallor of Thomas’s skin.

Then all was still, Jimmy’s laboured breathing the only sound.

Tears.  
Disbelief.  
Goodbyes.  
Grassby’s men.

Despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, let me know what you think as I kinda struggled with this one. Thank you all so much for continuing to read and leave comments .


	9. The Roof

The six o’clock call came as always.

Jimmy ignored the insistent rapping of the hall boy at his door, his eyes pressed shut against the memories of his latest and greatest failure - the image of Thomas’s face as his brains practically leaked out of his ears was too much.

It was all too much.

Jimmy climbed out of bed, his head pounding from grief and lack of sleep and the absolute insanity of it all. He walked over to his desk, pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote _‘Thomas, I’m so sorry. Don’t be sad - live. Yours always, Jimmy’_ in his scrawling script. He folded it in half, stuffed it in an envelope and addressed it to the under-butler before propping it up against an empty glass.

He crossed the space to small window - it looked out onto a gently sloped section of the Abbey’s roof. He opened the pane with the measured calm of someone who had made a decision, hopped up onto the sill then climbed out onto the roof proper. He walked to the edge, the damp lead flashing slippery as glass beneath his bare feet. Being in the attics, the servants quarters were old and draughty, but their saving grace was the phenomenal view their lofty position offered; the dewed grass of Downton’s grounds stretching out to all sides, steam rising from the fields in the morning sun, and the village and the church spire just visible beyond the tree line.

“I’m sorry,” he said to someone, though he wasn’t sure who. God, perhaps. Or Thomas. Or whomever it was that had trapped him in this nightmare, doomed to repeat his worst failure every day for eternity. Doomed to see Thomas, whom he _loved_ for Christ’s sake, die in every way imaginable, over and over, forever. Perhaps he himself had already died and this was hell.

No, he couldn’t take it any longer. If this was what it took to make it stop - so he didn’t have to see Thomas’s death yet again, so be it.

He closed his eyes and stepped off the roof.


	10. Gravel

It was just a normal day - a Tuesday - and Thomas found himself lying awake before the call, the morning sun intruding into his room through the dual skylights in his ceiling. A lifetime of being woken at the crack of dawn had trained his internal clock beyond the point of it ever being untrained, no matter how bone-achingly tired he was. It was his own damn fault that he was always tired these days anyway. Or rather Jimmy’s fault. Every evening the footman _insisted_ they stay up for one more hand of cards or one more cigarette or one more cup of tea and Thomas found, to his chagrin, he still couldn’t deny Jimmy anything.

Even if there was something very wrong with Jimmy Kent.

Thomas had spent a great deal of time over the years observing the first footman’s peculiarities and, well, a fine poker face he did not possess. Jimmy clearly thought himself very crafty and clever and would no doubt be mortified if he knew how his every emotion played across his expressive face more clearly than the ten foot tall pictures on a movie screen.

It was still anyone’s guess as to what actually went on inside that pretty blond head though. Just when Thomas thought he understood a little about him, Jimmy would go and say or do something so...so _odd_ , that it completely threw him for a six.

He was cocky yet unsure, flirty yet cold, snappish yet endearingly soft. Most of the time they got along swimmingly; Thomas would make a joke or a snarky comment and Jimmy would smirk and run with it like they were two halves of one mind. They helped each other, they looked out for each other, they backed each other up. Sometimes though, when Jimmy was in one of his ill tempers, he would stare into the middle distance and act like Thomas didn’t even exist. On the odd occasion he’d reacted to some innocuous comment like he’d been smacked and made an abrupt exit, only to be back to being Thomas’s bosom buddy the next day as if nothing had happened. And Thomas was always too afraid to ask what was wrong, not that Jimmy would answer him honestly if he did.

Sometimes, late at night when it was just the two of them in the servant’s hall, Jimmy would look at him with unguarded affection and something - something more - and Thomas _wondered_. He wondered if he hadn’t been barking up the wrong tree in the first place.

Perhaps that was what was really wrong with Jimmy Kent.

Thomas huffed and rolled over - too many sleepless nights had been spent agonising over that boy. And it was likely just wishful thinking; probably not something Jimmy would ever act on and _definitely_ not something Thomas would ever act on. The shame of the first time Thomas had tried to court Jimmy was still seared into his brain like some infected, unhealed wound that pulled and bled and itched every time Thomas let himself imagine Jimmy in that way.

Jimmy had been gracious enough to allow them to be friends, even after Thomas had misstepped so greatly, and that should be enough.

Except, of course, it would never be enough.

It some ways having Jimmy as his best mate was worse than when Jimmy had reviled him for a year. Being so close to the man and yet not able to have him entirely was akin to holding a shiny apple out before a starving child; they’d either give in to temptation and take what wasn’t theirs or die of wanting.

Thomas would die of wanting one day, he was sure.

Thomas put his pillow over his head in a vain attempt to drown out his thoughts and the rapping of the hall boy on his door - even under-butlers were victims of the six o’clock call. He dragged himself out of bed like one might scrape something unpleasant off the sole of their shoe and started the task of making himself presentable: a quick splash in the icy water of his vanity; a dangerously hurried scratch of the straight razor over his chin; a generous dollop of pomade slicked through his hair. He’d lingered too long in bed to have time for anything else.

He was part-way through dressing, clad in his trousers, undershirt and socked feet, when there was a sudden incessant banging at his door and a commotion in the corridor outside.

“Mr Barrow, if you are awake, please, we need you outside this instant,” Carson boomed and Thomas immediately knew there was something wrong; Carson had never deigned to say ‘please’ to Thomas in his entire career. He quickly did up his trousers, threw his livery tails over his shoulders, stepped into his shoes and made his way downstairs. The front door had been recklessly left wide open and it seemed the whole staff and most of the family had assembled out on the gravel, in various states of undress, gathered into a semi-circle at one side of the Abbey. He automatically searched the crowd for Jimmy’s pale green bathrobe or the flash of his golden hair, but he couldn’t spot him.

Thomas’s stomach filled with an unknown dread.

He pushed through the group, trying to catch snippets of the hushed conversations, but no one would make eye contact with him. Ivy was wrapped in a blanket and crying against Mrs Patmore’s shoulder and Alfred was off to one side, the back of his hand pressed to his eyes and looking like he might vomit.

Anna stopped Thomas before he could catch sight of what they were all gawping at, a hand on his arm. Ever the loyal servants, the Bates’s must have practically sprinted up from their cottage to have beaten Thomas to the commotion.

Not that Bates _could_ sprint.

“Thomas, I don’t think you want to see this,” Anna said, her cheeks wet with tears. “Remember him as he was, not like this.”

Thomas frowned and shook his arm free, the dread rolling around his stomach like a lead medicine ball - now he _had_ to see. He had to know. He broke out from the crowd and finally caught sight of what everyone was looking at.

Little Miss Sybbie had taken to carrying around one or another of her pretty china dolls - whichever poor thing was unlucky to be selected that day would be dragged all around the nursery and the house and even out into the gardens, destined to get its tiny dress irreparably besmirched. Once, Sybbie had been struggling in Nanny’s arms, desperate to avoid bed as most toddlers are, and had managed to accidentally cast her dolly over the gallery balustrade. It had sailed, wonderfully comical with its legs akimbo and its little bonnet flapping in the wind, down to the entrance hall where it’s finely featured porcelain face had been obliterated by the tiles.

As Thomas looked at Jimmy, broken and still and dead on the gravel, his limbs tumbled into unnatural positions, all he could think of were the inglorious fall and the smashed pieces of Miss Sybbie’s unfortunate doll.

He walked towards where Jimmy lay, his footsteps ear-splittingly loud as they crunched through the gravel, and knelt beside him. The pebbles were wet with morning dew and flecked here and there with spots of red, and painful against his knees.

His trousers would be ruined.

“Jimmy,” Thomas said, running his fingers lovingly though the footman’s bloodied hair. He was still warm, as if it were all a vastly inappropriate practical joke and Jimmy was just sleeping. “Jimmy, what’s happened to you, eh?”

He clenched his jaw tight and closed his eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill - he didn’t want to cry here, kneeling on the ground with everyone watching. But it was a fool’s errand; he’d always cried easily, even as a boy. It was just another thing his father had despised about him.

“My darling boy,” Thomas wept, “my darling, what have you done?” He slipped off his jacket and draped it over Jimmy, protecting him from the prying eyes of the assembled household.

“I’ll stay with you,” Thomas said, “I’ll keep you company.” And he did just so.

~

The police arrived fairly quickly and left again soon after, ostensibly satisfied. The men from Grassby’s took a little longer, but it was still all done by lunchtime.

Thomas sat silently in the rocking chair by the fire, still in his undershirt and ruined trousers, a forgotten cup of tea clasped in his hands as if it were a talisman. His tails had gone in the hearse with Jimmy, along with Thomas’s heart. The assembled staff sat around the table, a mostly uneaten lunch of breads and cold meats spread between them along with a spatter of hushed conversation. Baxter had tried and failed to offer Thomas some comfort, and was now holed up at one end of the table with Molesley, sniffing into a handkerchief. She kept casting Thomas baleful glances but he refused to meet her eye.

He didn’t want her pity, or anyone’s for that matter.

Something had been very wrong with Jimmy Kent and Thomas was been too much of a coward to ask what it was and now his Jimmy was gone forever.

Dead, and by his own hand. It couldn’t have been any worse if Thomas had pushed him off the roof himself.

Thomas deserved no sympathy.

“I still don’t understand it,” Daisy said to the room in general. “Doesn’t seem like summat Jimmy would do.”

“How d’ya mean?” Alfred asked.

“Jus’ seemed like he thought more highly of himself than that, s’all,” she said, her mouth twisting unhappily. “And he didn’t seem sad or owt.”

“You can never really know what’s going on inside someone’s head,” Mrs Hughes said. “And sometimes those who seem the most sure of themselves are really the ones with the most doubt.” Her eyes flicked over to Thomas but he pretended not to notice.

“It’s horrible though, to think he were so sad and we didn’t know it,” Daisy added.

Thomas’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Didn’t he say anythin’ to you Mr Barrow?” Daisy asked. Thomas withered under the scrutiny of the whole room and simply shook his head. He should’ve known. He was supposed to be Jimmy’s best mate.

He was supposed to _love_ Jimmy for god’s sake.

And likely it was his doing - the insidious poison that had ruined every chance, everything good in Thomas’s life, somehow it had seeped out and spread to Jimmy by association, and ruined him too.

“Well, we don’t actually know if did it on purpose like, or if he had an accident and fell or -” Alfred started but was interrupted by the under-cook.

“How? How could he have accidentally fallen _up_ and out of the window? I don’t think Jimmy’d learned to defy the laws of physics,” she said.

“Maybe he were sleepwalkin?” Alfred added.

“Or someone pushed him,” Bates interjected. Everyone fell silent. “Has his room been inspected for signs of a struggle?”

“That’s a disturbing thought Mr Bates,” said Mrs Hughes, “and the police inspector went in but said nothing was amiss.”

“The police inspector didn’t seem all that interested, in my opinion. He spent all of thirty minutes here. Perhaps someone more familiar with Jimmy should take a look?” Bates replied. All eyes were suddenly on the under-butler.

Thomas stood, the teacup clattering on its saucer, and said; “I’ll go.” His voice sounded like it didn’t belong to him, low and throaty and barely audible. “I’ll go,” he repeated, more determined.

“Not alone,” Bates added.

~

Thomas had been in Jimmy’s room a couple of dozen times since they’d become friends and at first glance everything looked normal. Thomas wasn’t sure what he’d expected - maybe some big painted letters on the wall proclaiming what had happened and why. The room was untidy, but that wasn’t unusal; Jimmy’s bed was unmade, his livery was hanging haphazardly on the door of the closet and the end of a cigarette had been smashed messily into the floorboards near his bed. It still smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the Brilliantine Jimmy always used on his hair.

“No signs of anything untoward then?” Bates asked and Thomas shook his head.

Carson looked around at the mess of Jimmy’s room and gave a low sigh. He’d insisted on joining Bates and Thomas and as he had the keys they’d not really been given a choice in the matter. Thomas silently dared the butler to comment on the state of the room.

Thomas walked over to the small window and looked out over the roof. What could possibly have been so awful that it had driven Jimmy out there? He tried not to imagine the footman, still in his pyjamas, opening the window and climbing out.

“There’s a letter here on the dresser,” Bates said and held up an unassuming white envelope.

“Maybe James left an explanation after all,” Carson said, gesturing for Bates to hand him the note.

“It’s addressed to Mr Barrow,” Bates added. Thomas crossed the room and snatched the envelope up out of Bates’s hand.

“Then I’ll be the one to read it,” Thomas stated. They’d have to tear it from his dying hands before he’d ever give it over.

Carson looked like he was about to object but Bates interrupted; “If that was his dying wish, for you to read it, then who are we to deny him that?” He gave Carson a meaningful look.

“As you say,” Carson acquiesced, “but I will want an accounting of any pertinent information.”

Thomas gave a tight nod and waited to be left alone - Bates almost had to drag Carson out of the room. Once they’d gone he sat on Jimmy’s unmade bed and stared at his name scratched in black ink on the cheap paper of the envelope for a good ten minutes before he could sum up the courage to open it. It was difficult to do with his shaking hands but he was determined not to rip the paper; he wanted to preserve everything about the note. The poor quality of the envelope was actually helpful as the gummed flap came away without much fuss.

Inside was a single sheet of off-white paper, folded in half. It didn’t match the envelope in either colour or quality and it looked as if it had been pilfered from an upstairs desk.

Thomas took a deep breath and unfolded the note - scrawled halfway down the sheet, in what was undeniably Jimmy’s looping hand, lay two lines:

_Thomas, I’m so sorry. Don’t be sad - live.  
Yours always, Jimmy_

Thomas bit back a sob at the valedictian.

_Yours always._

Except he was never really Thomas’s at all, was he? And now he never would be.

And the note was as much confirmation as they would ever get that Jimmy had indeed committed suicide.

It was unbearable.

When Thomas had been a young lad, a bigger boy from his street called Harry had taken a dislike to him; he was a great hulking bully of a boy with more than enough brawn to make up for his lack of brains. He’d made Thomas’s life miserable for a while and once had punched him in the stomach hard enough to wind him and then sat on his chest until he thought he might pass out.

Sitting on Jimmy’s bed now, with Jimmy’s suicide note in his hands, was akin to having ten Harry’s pressing him down into the mattress. A desperate sort of panic gripped Thomas and he had to lean forward with his elbows resting on his knees just so he could breathe. How was he supposed to just carry on living now? What was the point? The temptation to follow Jimmy out onto the Abbey’s roof prickled at the back of Thomas’s mind.

But no, that wasn’t what Jimmy had wanted.

 _Don’t be sad - live_ , that’s what he’d written. Those were Jimmy’s final words to him, and Thomas could no more dishonour them than he could fly to the moon. He’d keep on living, for Jimmy, even if Jimmy would never know a thing about it.

But now, for a while, he would allow himself to mourn. He’d mourn the loss of the love of his life, his best friend and everything in between. He lay down on Jimmy’s bed, the letter pressed to his chest, and let his tears flow until he fell into an fitful sleep full of images of his broken, darling boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that was so goddamn depressing 😬


	11. Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and kudos, I love you all so much!

_Do I dare  
_ _Disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time_   
_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

_For I have known them all already, known them all:_   
_Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,_   
_I have measured out my life with coffee spoons_   
_  
\- The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock, TS Elliot_

Some small part of Jimmy was relieved when he was woken by the six o’clock call. It was a very small part though - for the main he was distressed that even his own death had proved ineffective against this eternal loop in time, the blissful nothingness of it almost immediately interrupted by the hall boy rapping at his door _again_. He lay in bed for a while considering his options, knowing it wouldn’t really matter if he was late or not.

Sharing the secret of the time loop with Thomas was now out of the question; last time it had apparently given him a brain aneurysm or something and Jimmy was not in any hurry to repeat that experience. It was _Jimmy contra mundi_ again - back to finagling his way through the day and avoiding the ever-growing and near unmanageable list of dangers to Thomas’s life.

Oh yes, because that had worked out so well the last seventeen times.

If there was a knack to this, a lesson he was supposed to be learning, then he just didn’t understand it. He’d never been very good at learning from his mistakes, which was a pity considering he made so many.

Jimmy huffed and thought back to the first time he’d seen Thomas die - what were the words he’d said, the ones he’d assumed had been taken as a prayer and thus he could attribute this whole mess to?

_If I could have the time again, I’d make sure Thomas knew he was loved. I’d be a better man._

Jimmy vaguely remembered something in the Bible about having to act in accordance with one’s prayers before God would give you so much as a look in. Well, insulting Alfred and being uppity to Anna and telling Carson to stuff it was hardly trying to be a better man, was it? Jimmy thought it would’ve been difficult to become a worse man than the one he already was, but somehow over the course of seventeen Tuesdays he’d managed it.

Thomas had to know though, didn’t he? Jimmy frowned and tried to recall all their conversations - he’d danced around the subject, but had he _really_ never said it?

He’d been going about this all wrong and he was an _idiot_. Perhaps that was the lesson to be learned, though it was hardly a surprise to find out he actually was the idiot he’d always suspected himself to be.

His reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock at his door.

“Yeah, I’m up!” Jimmy called, forcing himself to roll out of bed. There was moment’s pause, then the knocking started up again, more insistent, until Jimmy was forced to cross the room and throw open the door with an irritated huff.

Thomas. Thomas was outside his room, pale-faced and only half-dressed.

But that didn’t happen - in seventeen loops that had _never_ happened.

“Ah - Jimmy,” Thomas said, “I just - I needed to see that you were alright,” he looked away, embarrassed. “Never mind, I’m being daft.”

“No,” Jimmy reached out and caught Thomas by the wrist, “you’re here for a reason so come in for a minute.” He pulled the under-butler into his room. Thomas closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his whole posture radiating exhaustion.

“Tell me,” Jimmy said firmly. Thomas frowned, a little taken aback by his intensity.

“I had, well it must have been a dream,” Thomas shook his head, “and - well, something bad happened to you. Ah, I shouldn’t be saying this, I’m being ridiculous.”

“You could never be ridiculous to me,” Jimmy shot back.

“Well,” Thomas blushed at that, not used to such flowery words from Jimmy, “it was a just a dream.”

“So it was a dream, tell me anyway.”

“You died,” Thomas said, suddenly very interested in something over Jimmy’s left shoulder, “you - you jumped off the roof and died.”

Jimmy’s horror must have shown on his face as Thomas said; “What is it Jimmy?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jimmy lied, trying hard for nonchalance. How could Thomas possibly know about the last loop? He hadn’t done anything to set of the déjà vu - he dared not. “Well no, it’s not nothing, just - I’d never do that to you Thomas.” _Again_. “I’d never leave you on purpose. I promise.” And he stepped into Thomas’s space, crowding him against the door, his hand coming up to brush the hair back from Thomas’s brow.

Thomas let out a barely audible gasp and his whole posture went fixed, rigid like an animal caught in the headlamps of a motor. Jimmy took a deep breath and swallowed hard - his throat couldn’t have been more parched if he’d been swallowing sand. He let his hand fall to Thomas’s shoulder, his thumb stroking a line along Thomas’s clavicle and up the side of his throat.

“The thing is Thomas - and I should’ve said this a long time ago, but I’m a coward so I’ve pretended like s’not true - I wouldn’t ever leave you. I don’t like leavin’ you each evening to go to my own bed and each morning after breakfast to see to my duties. I’d spend every waking minute with you if I could because you’re the only thing in my whole life that’s ever mattered at all. Because - well, I _love_ you,” Jimmy felt his face crumple - even after everything that had happened it was still difficult for him to admit; not because he had any shame in Thomas, but rather because he was ashamed of himself.

Thomas blinked.

“I’m awful and vain and selfish,” Jimmy said, “and I hurt the only person that’s ever given a damn about me. I hurt you, and I’m so goddamn _sorry_ Thomas. And I wouldn’t blame you if you socked me one an’ threw me over. But I had to tell you that - that you’re everythin’ to me an’ I love you dearly.” Jimmy took a steadying breath and waited for Thomas to speak.

Silence for twenty seconds that stretched out like a chasm between them. It might as well have been an eternity.

“After everything,” Thomas shook his head, his voice rough, “everything that’s happened between us. I can hardly believe it.”

Jimmy closed his eyes and braced himself for the rejection he was due - if he had to live in a world where Thomas was alive and well but didn’t want him - well, he could survive that. It was no less than he deserved. “If you don’t love me any more, I’ll understand, and I won’t say another word about it.”

A half-gloved hand - warm, butter-soft leather and warmer skin - against his cheek. Jimmy opened his eyes to find Thomas’s grey-blue ones mere inches away.

“Oh my darling boy,” Thomas said, a smile teasing his red lips into something beautiful, “I’d love you for a thousand lifetimes.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Jimmy managed to reply before Thomas caught his mouth in a kiss. It was so soft and full of emotion that Jimmy had to press his eyes tight against the pinpricks of tears and wrap his arms around Thomas’s back to stop himself swooning away like a soppy girl.

The hall boy knocked again - six-thirty. They broke apart and Jimmy pressed his forehead against Thomas’s.

“We’re going to be late,” Jimmy said.

“So what? We’ll be late, they’ll survive it,” Thomas replied. They were so close Jimmy could feel the words against his own lips.

Thomas kissed his way down Jimmy’s cheek and nosed at his throat, laying soft kisses against the warm skin there.

“Listen,” Jimmy said, “and this will sound odd but please, indulge me.”

Thomas nodded, a small motion against Jimmy’s neck.

“I had a bad dream too, where you were hurt,” he lied, “and it’s made me worry. Please take care today. And stay away from the grand staircase, alright?”

“If it’ll make you happy.”

“It really will,” Jimmy smiled, “and I’ll stay away from open windows.”

“See that you do.”

* * *

  
To say they had been reticent to part was an understatement, but they’d finally been overruled by Carson himself bellowing down the corridor, and had agreed to talk more that evening once all the work was done.

Assuming Thomas was still alive by then.

But, crucially, Jimmy had told Thomas he was loved - he’d said the words, finally, and it hadn’t been as devastatingly world-altering as he’d imagined. He felt lighter but also had a deep unsoothable ache in his chest, as if he’d taken half his heart and given it to Thomas to carry around in his breast pocket. But Jimmy hadn’t broken into a million shards of himself and he didn’t feel bad or wrong or sinful like he’d thought he would - and he hadn’t been stuck down by a lightning bolt from the heavens. The world was still turning on its axis as if Jimmy’s life altering declaration was of no significance at all. He supposed, in the grand scheme of things, it _was_ insignificant who a nobody footman from a nothing village in England loved or didn’t love.

It wasn’t insignificant to Thomas though, and that was what really mattered.

 _Thomas_ was what really mattered.

Jimmy was selfish, he knew that and had little shame in it - being all alone in the world with no one to look out for him necessitated a little selfishness. But, somehow, the under-butler had become more important to Jimmy than _Jimmy_.

It was terrifying to care so much about someone, especially when they just kept on dying all the damn time.

Jimmy had rushed through his morning routine and chores with his half-heart rabbiting in his chest at the memory of Thomas’s lips, and made his way to the already unbearably hot kitchen. Mrs Patmore, Ivy and Daisy were slaving away poaching eggs and frying bacon, as they’d been doing for a good hour before Jimmy even got up. He didn’t know how they survived it every day - the heat made his hair a floppy mess and he found himself worrying his collar after only a few minutes of loitering.

“Smells delicious in here,” Jimmy said, leaning against the wall. “I do enjoy the breakfasts here at Downton, they’re much nicer than the ones I had at Anstruther’s.”

Silence, and three confused faces staring at him.

When he received no response Jimmy added; “All the cooking is nicer here. You’re all very - uh - good cooks,” he finished lamely.

Ivy blushed and giggled.

“Thanks, I suppose,” Daisy said.

Mrs Patmore narrowed her eyes and barked; “What d’ya want?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy shrugged. “Can’t I say something nice?”

“No,” Mrs Patmore said, “ _you_ can’t.”

“What do you like best then Jimmy,” Ivy swooned, “what’s your favourite breakfast?”

After eating the same thing for seventeen days in a row, Jimmy would rather have something Isis dragged in than even look at toast and egg and bacon ever again.

Then it dawned on him: “Crumpets,” he lied. They were Thomas’s favourite.

“No crumpets today _Milord_ ,” Mrs Patmore thrust a plate of toast into his hands. “But make yerself useful and take this in.”

Jimmy knew better than to argue with the cook, and in the spirit of turning over a new leaf and being a better man and all that, he did as he was bid with no complaining. He even smiled.

He deposited the toast on the servant’s hall table and took his usual seat - he was earlier than normal and second only to Anna and Bates.

“Good morning,” Jimmy said cheerfully. Anna gave him a small smile but Bates looked suitably suspicious. “Your hair looks nice today Anna, have you done something different to it?” Honestly, Jimmy couldn’t give two hoots about Anna’s hair, but by god, he was trying wasn’t he?

Bate’s frown carved itself deeper into his brow.

“Thank you Jimmy,” Anna smiled, bemused, “nothing different though. I just must be having a good hair day.”

“Isn’t that so every day?” Bates said in that saccharine, reverent tone he reserved for his wife. Jimmy pulled a face - it was like having breakfast with both Jekyll and Hyde simultaneously. God knew what Anna saw in the miserable old git.

No, that sort of thinking was unbecoming to the man Jimmy was trying to be. Although, as long as he didn’t say anything, he supposed it was ok. Surely other people actually thought awful things too, but were just better at keeping them in than Jimmy was?

Molesley, Baxter and Alfred joined the table, followed shortly after by the housemaids and Mrs Hughes. Jimmy brewed a pot of tea and tried to make small talk, but it mostly fell on deaf ears.

“Here Jimmy,” Daisy said, plonking a steaming plate of crumpets next to his elbow.

“Daisy - thank you!” Jimmy grinned. “You made them special like?”

“S’not hard,” she frowned, “and everyone deserves to get something they want once in a while. Even you. Makes life worth livin’, don’t it?”

“That it does,” Jimmy said, thinking of Thomas’s mouth against his that very morning. He’d already gotten one thing he wanted today. “I won’t forget it Daisy.”

The cook scurried back off into the kitchen and Jimmy made a little crumpet tower on his plate so he could save as many as possible. He noticed Molesley eyeing the remaining crumpets so he balanced another two on the edge of his saucer for good measure.

“Hungry this morning James?” Mrs Hughes asked, eyeing Jimmy’s over-abundance of doughy breakfast foods.

“Not particularly,” Jimmy replied, “I’m saving them for Mr Barrow. Crumpets are his favourite.”

Mrs Hughes gave him an odd look.

“Bit soppy ain’t it?” Alfred interjected - he would definitely be the one to test Jimmy’s resolve to be nicer. He was just such a fundamentally unlikable clot.

“What, being nice to a friend?” Jimmy shot back.

“I didn’t think you knew how ta be nice,” Alfred replied.

“I’ll have you know I can be very nice, when I want to be,” Jimmy said.

“You must not want to be nice very often then,” Bates added.

Jimmy couldn’t stop his face from twisting into something unpleasant - he was definitely being tested. Thankfully Thomas chose that moment to enter and saved him from making a less-than-polite reply, as everyone stood to attention until the under-butler waved them back into their seats. Thomas sat opposite Jimmy, as he always did, with a casual “Morning Jimmy” and a warm smile.

“Good morning Mr Barrow,” Jimmy smiled back earnestly and poured Thomas a cup of tea.

“You’re chipper this morning Mr Barrow,” Anna said.

“I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good day,” he replied with a cheerful grin

“It’s off to a good start Mr Barrow,” Jimmy added and a flicker of comprehension ghosted over Thomas’s face. “Look - crumpets. I had Daisy make them for you, as I know their your favourite.” He passed his loaded plate of crumpets over and from the way Thomas beamed anyone would think Jimmy had just handed him a gold clock, not a leaning tower of slightly-cold crumpets.

“Thank you Jimmy,” Thomas said and tried in vain to wipe away his Cheshire-cat grin, his eyes bright. And when he smiled like that, Jimmy couldn’t help but beam back at him, despite the fact he could see Alfred in his peripheral vision looking at them as if they’d both just crawled out of a drain. Under the cover of the tabletop he nudged Thomas’s calf with the toe of his shoe - Thomas just grinned all the more and buttered his crumpets.

“I’d like you all to give the small library a thorough going over this morning,” Mrs Hughes said to the housemaids.

“I can help if you like,” Jimmy interjected.

Mrs Hughes and Alfred both shot him quizzical looks.

“Won’t you have your own work to be getting on with?” Mrs Hughes replied, cynical.

“Yes, but I can make time this once if I hurry through it,” Jimmy forced himself to smile. Was it really so hard to believe that he was capable of being helpful? “I’m sure Mr Carson wouldn’t disapprove if it were helpful to you, Mrs Hughes?”

Mrs Hughes looked at Jimmy as if he was a particularly problematic and mischievous child and she was trying to discern what naughty trick he was planning on playing next.

“I mean if you’d rather let the maids try to move the furniture...” Jimmy shrugged.

“No, thank you James,” Mrs Hughes shook her head, “I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

The conversations around the table picked up again: Bates took Anna’s hand and wished her a good day; Alfred asked Ivy if she’d show him the trick of how to make perfect poached eggs; Daisy came in and scolded her for chatting and then Mrs Patmore bustled in and said “Oh it’s the pot to the kettle is it?”

Jimmy ignored them all in favour of watching Thomas eat his crumpets and lick a smear of melted butter off his top lip in a move that went straight to Jimmy’s groin.

“You’re staring y’know,” Thomas said quietly - only Jimmy was listening anyway, the others were caught up in their own inane conversations.

“Can’t a cat look at a King?” Jimmy teased.

Thomas smirked and said; “Well I suppose one cannot love _and_ be wise. Not that you were ever wise before.” He yawned; “I’m bloody knackered before we’ve even started the day.”

“Just once I’d like to have a lie-in,” Jimmy replied, “or breakfast in bed.”

“What, like a married lady?”

Jimmy pouted and pretended to be put out at the comment. “Better than an _old_ man,” he said.

“Cheeky sod,” Thomas smirked around his teacup, then added softly, so only Jimmy could hear; “Maybe one day I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Well now that’s something to look forward too.”

They were interrupted by Carson arriving - he waved at them to sit, but before they’d had chance the bell-board started ringing in multiple places. In the hustle of everyone leaving Jimmy managed to catch Thomas’s eye and inclined his head towards the piano. The under-butler took the hint and lingered by the instrument, idly fingering the keys.

“Thomas,” Jimmy said, catching his elbow and leaning in a little too close for propriety, “mind what I said, alright? Please take care today.” He looked across the room - it was empty save for two housemaids finishing their tea and they had their backs turned, so Jimmy dared to dart in and press his lips to Thomas’s. The under-butler took a step back and almost fell over the piano stool.

“Jimmy!” he hissed. “What did I just say about being wise?”

“You said I can’t love _and_ be wise,” Jimmy grinned, “so I guess that means I’m choosing to love.” Then he walked away, so as to have the last word.  
  


* * *

  
Upstairs breakfast went off without a hitch and, to Jimmy’s relief, Thomas absolutely did not fall down the grand staircase. Jimmy raced through his usual chores then seconded himself off to the small library where he expected to find himself at the mercy of Mrs Hughes, but was instead surprised to find Thomas directing the housemaids.

“Isn’t this a bit below your dignity, Mr Barrow?” Jimmy asked, slouching against one of the ornate columns.

“Aren’t you supposed to be here to help?” Thomas replied. His eyes flicked up and down Jimmy’s body; pleased at the attention the footman pretended to stretch languidly and casually pushed his hair off his brow.

“Oh I’m helping by just being here,” Jimmy grinned, “y’know, adding a bit of class to the proceedings.”

“Yes, working class,” Thomas said archly, “so _work_.”

Jimmy spent the next hour hauling desks, carrying chairs and dragging a bookcase across the room and back again, all while Thomas stood, straight-backed and beautiful, off to one side and took absolute delight in directing Jimmy’s every move. By the end of it Jimmy was knackered, but Thomas was struggling to suppress a smirk. Jimmy suspected Thomas had taken control of this task purely to watch him lug furniture around.

And, best of all, as Thomas had stayed in the library he was safe - yes, being a bit of a git, but _safe_.

Jimmy caught sight of the clock and realised it was nearing lunchtime.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to excuse me Mr Barrow, although I know this operation will fall apart without me,” he said, “but I have an appointment with Mr Carson’s lamp.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Thomas drawled, watching the maids as they gathered up the dust sheets.

“Hopefully not.”

* * *

After a quick mooch in the store cupboard Jimmy loitered in the corridor with his pilfered lightbulb. Carson bustled off right on cue and Jimmy slipped in to his pantry. The offending lamp was sitting innocently on Carson’s desk; the little stained glass panels had the nerve to appear merry when Jimmy knew the thing was a damned death trap.

Just staring at it wasn’t going to get anything done so he pulled it out of the wall like he was ripping off a sticking plaster. Jimmy poked it with a chewed pencil from his pocket - nothing. He held his breath and unscrewed the duff bulb - nothing. He was mid-way through replacing the bulb when Carson came back in and started at the sight of Jimmy leaning over his lamp, the picture of a surgeon at the operating table.

“James, what on Earth are you doing?” Carson asked, eyeing his lamp.

“Oh, I came in here looking for you but I noticed your lamp was flickering, so I was just replacing the bulb for you.” Jimmy’s lie was punctuated by a satisfying click as the bulb seated itself.

“Well, thank you, I suppose,” Carson frowned. Apparently even personally mending his lamp wasn’t enough to get a good word out of the butler. Regardless, he hoped his efforts would be recognised by whichever deity needed mollifying, whether Carson noticed or not. “Why were you looking for me?”

“Err,” Jimmy plugged the lamp back in and it buzzed into life, the stained glass made pretty by the amber light within. “Do you know Mr Carson, I’ve plain forgotten. It’ll come back to me.” And he made his escape.  
  


* * *

The next order of business was the lunchtime picnic in the courtyard - Mrs Patmore was swayed again, as Jimmy knew exactly what to say to make her go along with it.

“What’s this then?” Thomas said ( _again_ ), staring at the tablecloth, basket and glasses.

“I thought I’d, well, treat you to a picnic lunch,” Jimmy said. He sat at the table and started unpacking the scotch eggs and pork pie.

Thomas didn’t move, apparently lost for words.

“Come on,” Jimmy said, gesturing to the bench opposite, “we haven’t got all day. Mrs Patmore can only cover for us for so long.”

Thomas sat down, a small smile playing over his lips. “How you got Mrs Patmore to cover for us at all is what I’d like to know.”

“Just used me charm and boyish good looks,” Jimmy arched an eyebrow.

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“Look,” Jimmy said. He reached out and took Thomas’s gloved hand atop the tablecloth. “You deserve good things Thomas, the finest things, and I want you to know I’m plannin’ on doin’ whatever I have to so I can give ‘em to you. Because you’re the best man I’ve ever known and I love you.”

Thomas stared at their hands, joined as they were on the tablecloth, and curled his slim, pale fingers around Jimmy’s tanned, square ones. “There’s nothing you could give me that’s finer than what you’ve already given me; yourself,” he said, his voice almost breaking. Jimmy had to clench his jaw and look away before he took to tears himself.

“A bit soppy,” Jimmy teased and Thomas threw half a scotch egg at him.

* * *

The next few hours passed off without incident - Jimmy made sure to be diligent and hard-working and finished his usual chores by mid-afternoon. He stopped in the servant’s hall for a glass of water and came across Mrs Patmore on the war path about something, bending the ear of Carson, Mrs Hughes and Thomas.

“So you’re saying me pans still aren’t back from being retinned yet?” Mrs Patmore wailed.

“They arrived on the afternoon train but I’m afraid they’re still at the station,” Mrs Hughes replied.

“And what use are they to me there?” Mrs Patmore wailed. “There were supposed to be delivered to the house this morning! I’ve been making do but Ivy’s managed to burn summat on to me one good pan and how the blazes am I supposed to cook for company this evening with nary a pot or pan, eh?”

“Could we send the hall boys for them?” Mr Carson suggested.

“Not unless they’ve grown into Douglas Fairbanks overnight. Those copper pots are heavy,” Mrs Hughes replied.

“I have a little time between things, if you’d like me to run down to the village and collect them?” Jimmy suggested. He gave Thomas an imploring look.

“That’s very nice of you James, but it’s still too much for one to carry and the wagonette is already out picking up a delivery from York,” Mrs Hughes said.

“I don’t mind going along,” Thomas said, “I’m sure we can manage it between us.”

“I’d have expected you to think it below your station Mr Barrow,” Mrs Hughes teased, “but if you really don’t mind and as long as Mr Carson has no objections?”

“I do not,” Carson added. “And James, your attitude seems...improved today. Let’s hope this change persists.”

Jimmy felt himself grow inches taller at the compliment.

“Then it’s settled,” Thomas nodded.

* * *

It was a fine afternoon for a walk; the sky was clear and the sun was warm enough that they didn’t need overcoats, but not so hot as to be oppressive. In his day suit and bowler Thomas looked fine enough to take a place in a museum - statuesque, with a face cut from marble.

“Aren’t you glad I contrived a way for a walk then?” Jimmy said. He kept as close to Thomas as he could feasibly get away with in public, shoulders bumping and hands brushing as they strolled down the lane towards the village.

“I am,” Thomas nodded under his bowler, “even if it means breaking my back carrying Patmore’s bloody pans back.”

“I’m sure I can make it worth your while.”

Thomas shot him a look, his lovely mouth twisting into a salacious smirk. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it,” Jimmy replied. Remembering the bus and how it had made a sickening crunch when it had hit Thomas he added; “Let’s walk through the woods, it’ll be romantic.”

“Alright,” Thomas agreed easily.  
  


* * *

  
It _was_ romantic, with the sun casting dappled shadows over Thomas’s face and the breeze gently coaxing the trees into a sussurating serenade. Hidden as they were, they even held hands as they walked, both blushing awkwardly like overawed schoolgirls. Jimmy was loathe to leave the cover of the trees but, alas, they still had a job to do.

By the time they’d made it to the station, collected the two boxes of pans and walked back to the centre of the village, Jimmy’s arms were aching enough that he regretted the whole ordeal, the walk through the woods notwithstanding.

“Not sure even your company was worth volunteering for this,” Thomas said, his bowler slipping low over his brow.

“You did it because you wanted to spend time with me,” Jimmy grinned, “because you love me.”

“Apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“I thought I was getting us both out of work for a bit,” Jimmy shifted the box in his arms, “more fool me.”

“It was a particularly nice walk though,” Thomas said. Jimmy remembered how Thomas had smiled and squeezed Jimmy’s hand and he was inclined to agree.

As they passed the pub Jimmy had an idea. He dumped the box at his feet, the copper pans clattering loudly enough to make Thomas start.

“D’ya think we’ve got time for a drink?” he asked, wiping his face with his cap, “I’m parched.”

Thomas hefted his box against his hip, “Oh, these pans are _so_ heavy we will just _have_ to keep stopping and resting.”

“Time for a couple of drinks then.”

Being late afternoon the pub was almost empty - Jimmy found them a booth big enough to dump the boxes and seat both men whilst Thomas bought the beer.

“Well this is nice,” Jimmy said, gratefully swigging his pint as soon as Thomas put it down. Thomas slid into the seat opposite and let the toes of his shoes rest against Jimmy’s - it was probably the closest to holding hands in public that they would ever get.

“First a picnic lunch now drinks,” Thomas smiled, “I feel thoroughly wooed. Are you going to try and cop a feel on the way home like you did with Ivy?”

Jimmy spluttered into his pint. After a couple of minutes of frantic coughing, which Thomas smirked throughout, Jimmy gathered himself enough to say; “I never should’ve started all that with Ivy. Me heart weren’t exactly in it.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Because I were in love with you,” Jimmy stated. “Even then, an’ before.”

For a moment Thomas’s face was unusually open, his affection apparent in the softness of his eyes.

“I think I’ve always loved you really,” Jimmy added. “I was just too much of an idiot to realise it.”

“You won’t find any argument here,” Thomas shot back, but he was smiling, really smiling, in the way that seemed to be reserved for Jimmy alone. Jimmy felt like god was bestowing a blessing on him every time Thomas fixed him with that smile.

“Do you know how sorry I am?”  
Jimmy asked. “About - everything. Trying to get you sacked and all that.”

“I know,” Thomas shook his head, “and it wasn’t all your fault.”

“Can’t believe you were ever friends with O’Brien,” Jimmy said, scowling at the mention of her and how easily she’d manipulated the situation, “old witch.”

“Believe it or not I was just as bad, once.”

“But at least you were handsome,” Jimmy laughed, “she had the nerve to be ugly and awful. But - some of it were my fault. I _flirted_.”

“You always flirt,” Thomas lit two cigarettes and handed one to Jimmy. “You can’t help yourself.”

“I - I know. I just, I don’t know how to be normal. I’m a mess Thomas, I am.”

“No,” Thomas started but Jimmy cut him off.

“I am,” he pressed on, the words cascading out like someone had unstopped his mouth and he was powerless to resist. “I know people are only interested in me because I’m nice to look at. I only got the job at Downton because Lady Mary twisted Carson’s arm so the ladies would have someone to gawp at over dinner. No one really knows me - and when they do get to know me, they don’t like me at all. Anstruther pretended to like me, but she only really wanted what all the rest always wanted. And that’s what I thought you wanted at the beginning. That you might love me - it was impossible.”

“But I did love you - I do love you,” Thomas said and the enormity of it, of having Thomas’s love, hit Jimmy square in the chest. “I know you Jimmy Kent and I love you more with each and every day. _The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history_.”

Thomas quoting Wilde was the last straw. Jimmy couldn’t speak anymore, not without giving over to tears, so he settled for sipping his pint and pressing his toes against Thomas’s, surely scuffing the under-butler’s shoes.

The pub door opened with a bang and three men strode in, laughing raucously. Jimmy didn’t recognise their faces from around the village and something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The men scanned the pub until their eyes landed on Thomas and Jimmy in their booth - one of them said something behind his hand to the other two, then all three broke into a scathing sort of laughter and ambled up to the bar.

“Looks like trouble,” Thomas said, “perhaps we should drink up and get goin’.”

Jimmy nodded and downed the rest of his pint. He’d gotten Thomas into a brawl once before and he didn’t plan on doing it again. As they were leaving, boxes hefted against their chests, one of the men gave a low wolf-whistle. Thomas walked on as if he hadn’t heard, but Jimmy couldn’t help but glare hotly at the men, which only caused them to fall about in mocking laughter.

“How did they know?” Jimmy hissed once the pub was a good way behind them.

“They didn’t,” Thomas said cooly, “they were just casting around for trouble, trying to see who’d take the bait. You’ve got to learn to just ignore it, or else we’re going to end up in a lot of scrapes.”

Jimmy sulked for a good fifteen minutes, the stupid wolf-whistling thugs and their apparent preternatural ability to spot homosexuals playing on his mind. As the boxes of pots and pans were so bloody heavy and they were ridiculously late, Thomas had led them on a shortcut through the green and open grounds of the Abbey. They walked through a field that had been left to fallow, past a small copse and then up a gentle incline to an imposing dome-roofed folly.

“The Temple of Diana,” Thomas said, inclining his head towards the building. “Built by his Lordship’s predecessor in the 1800’s when it was the fashion to waste money on mock Roman temples.”

Jimmy frowned; “What’s the point of it though?”

Thomas shrugged; “What, besides showing off how much money you’ve got?”

“Well I’m about to use it to lean on - I’m bloody knackered,” Jimmy said as he unceremoniously dumped his box and reclined against the white stone wall of the folly. “And we still have to serve at dinner this evening.”

“There won’t be a dinner if we don’t hurry up with these damn pans,” Thomas replied, but he dropped his box on top of Jimmy’s and lit a cigarette. He settled in next to Jimmy, tipping his head back against the wall and looking out across the fields towards the Abbey.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Jimmy finally said.

“What?”

“Those men back there, and the others like them. Doesn’t it make you angry, to be treated like that because of who you love?”

Thomas thought for a moment then said; “It used to make me very angry. I was angry about a lot of things for many years. But the thing about being angry all the time is that it’s like trying to go about with a fire inside your ribcage. You only end up hurting yourself and if you’re not careful you’ll burn up to nothing but ashes.”

Jimmy nodded - he was prone to fits of anger but they always burned out as quickly as they appeared, like flash fires in a forest.

“And I realised they’re nothing to me so their opinion means nothing to me,” Thomas shrugged, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Why waste energy over it?”

“When did you get so clever?” Jimmy said.

“Oh, I’ve always been clever,” Thomas smirked, “I’m just not very _wise_ is all.” Silence for a beat then; “Jimmy, why now?”

“What?”

“Why did you wake up this morning and decide you were going to tell me how you felt? What changed?” Thomas kept his eyes on the horizon as he spoke, a cloud of smoke circling him in a hazy aura.

“I changed,” Jimmy said, “or else my view of what was important did. I realised if something were to happen to you and I’d never told you you were loved - beloved - I’d never be able to forgive myself. I want to be a better man Thomas; you make me want to be a better man.”

“You’re already the perfect man for me,” Thomas said, “well, if you’d learn how to pick up after yourself and stop stealing all my cigarettes, then you’d be the perfect man.”

At that Jimmy leaned in, pinched the cigarette from Thomas’s lips and placed it between his own, tossing Thomas a cheeky wink as he did it. Thomas rounded on him and pinned his hands back against the folly - Jimmy’s heart stopped for a moment then picked up an hammering, uneven pace in his chest at the way Thomas was gently holding him against the wall.

“Tsk, stealing is naughty,” Thomas teased, his grey eyes bright with amusement. “And naughty boys get punished.”

“No more than I deserve,” Jimmy said and he let the cig drop from between his lips and into the dirt. It was replaced a moment later with Thomas’s mouth, firm and insistent and warm and wonderful. Thomas released Jimmy’s hands in favour of curling his arms around the footman’s back, pressing their chests together. Jimmy scraped his fingers through Thomas’s hair and the under-butler let out a low moan. It filled Jimmy’s stomach with the pull of desire and he wanted very much to hear all the different noises Thomas might make in the bedroom.

They broke apart at the sound of approaching footsteps - this was private property and by all rights they should’ve been alone. Three men rounded the folly - Jimmy immediately recognised them as the same men from the pub, the ones who kept looking at Thomas and Jimmy in the booth together and somehow they’d known, like some goddamn bloodhounds for deviants.

“Look what we got here,” one of the men said - he was tall and gangly, taller even than Alfred, and had the sort of ruddy, ill-favoured face not even a mother could love. “Couple of right _lavenders_ , eh?”

“We’re not looking for any trouble,” Thomas said, “we’ll just be on our way home.” He caught Jimmy’s sleeve and turned, trying to lead him away from the men, the boxes of Mrs Patmore’s pans forgotten.

“Look at ya, all la-de-dah ‘cause you work at the big house,” the lanky man said, circling around to block their escape route. He took off his cap and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Thinkin’ youse better than the likes of us just ‘cause youse got feckin’ fancy suits and ya spend yer days wiping some lord’s arse. But you ain’t better, are you, queers?”

“What’s in them boxes then?” the squat, dark-haired man added.

“Nothing valuable,” Thomas said, “unless you have a fetish for copper pots and pans.”

“Betcha got some cash though, right? Fancy looking fellas like you two. I’m thinkin’ ya should hand it over,” said the squat man.

“Or what?” Jimmy said hotly, “What if we won’t?”

“Looks like th’ little fairy wants ta fight,” the third man said, his face hidden in the shadow between his hat and the upturned collar of his jacket.

Thomas took half a step forwards, strategically placing himself between Jimmy and the men.

“Fairy?” Jimmy seethed, “Come ‘ere and I’ll show you how a fairy fights, alright!”

“Jimmy, get out of here,” Thomas hissed, “run back to Downton.”

“No,” Jimmy shook his head. He’d left Thomas to take a beating for him once before and he’d sworn to any deity who’d listen that he’d never be such a coward again. “I won’t leave you.”

“Would ya look at that boys, the little one’s got some fire,” the lanky man taunted. “Or else he won’t leave his pretty _girl_ here.”

Thomas’s face went red at that, his jaw tight.

“Couple o’disgusting lavender catamites,” he spat, “need some real men to teach them a lesson, I reckon.”

“Pity there ain’t any real men round here then,” Jimmy snapped.

The mood changed suddenly then, thick with expectation, and Jimmy knew enough to understand that threats were about to turn into actions. Thomas took off his jacket and threw it aside, his chin held high in pure defiance. It was enough to give the men pause and to fill Jimmy with a weird sort of pride at Thomas’s bravery.

“Get ‘em!” The lanky man shouted. He grabbed at Thomas, but the under-butler shrugged him off and landed glancing blow on the thug’s jaw. The third man grabbed Thomas’s left arm and tried to twist it behind him.

At that moment the short man barrelled into Jimmy like a runaway train, knocking him to the ground and then falling atop him, his hands at Jimmy’s throat. Jimmy squirmed and twisted, trying to free himself from under the bigger man. He could hear the scuffle between Thomas and the other two men, but his whole range of vision was filled with the twisted face of his assailant. Jimmy wasn’t above fighting dirty so he clawed at the man’s eyes and, when the hold on his throat threatened to choke him, he bit the man’s hand hard enough to draw blood.

The man released his hold on Jimmy’s neck and rolled away, clutching his bleeding hand. Jimmy scrabbled to his feet and kicked the squat man as hard as he could, anywhere he could. The man curled into a ball, trying to defend himself - unluckily for him, Jimmy had always been good at football. He planted a heavy kick square in the back of the attacker’s head and he went still, his body collapsing forwards into the dirt.

Thomas was pinned back against the folly, his arms restrained by the lanky man whilst the third attacker lay a volley of punches into his stomach.

“Oi!” Jimmy yelled, running full pelt at them. He grabbed the lanky man round the middle and ripped him away from Thomas, releasing the under-butler. Thomas immediately fought back, wrestling his attacker to the ground where they scrabbled around, each trying to gain some purchase on the other. Jimmy swung for the lanky man but missed as the man stepped away - he caught Jimmy by the back of his jacket and threw him up against the folly. Jimmy felt his nose pop against the unforgiving white stone and, dazed, slid to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Jimmy!” Thomas shouted. He’d managed to get the upper hand over his attacker and had him pinned face down in the dirt. The lanky man approached Thomas and pulled something small and dangerously shiny from inside his coat.

It was a pocket knife: the inch-long blade flicked out with a click and the man held it up like a warning.

“I’ll be havin’ those wallets now,“ the lanky man said, “or maybe I’ll rid the world of a couple o’revolting catamites.”

The last thing Jimmy saw as he blacked out was the thug thrust the knife towards Thomas’s face.

* * *

The six o’clock call woke Jimmy with a start. His whole body ached terribly, especially his head, and he couldn’t have felt any worse if he’d been run over by a cart. Thirty seconds or so passed whereby he tried to sort the events of the last loop out from the scattered memories of each version of the day.

Then suddenly he remembered; Patmore’s pans, the pub, being kissed pressed up against the rough stone of the folly, the three men and the flash of a knife.

 _Thomas_.

He sighed in self-pity, rolled over and dragged himself out of bed with considerable effort. He limped over to the vanity; it was a shock when he caught sight of himself in the mirror - both his eyes were blacked, his nose was swollen across the bridge and his bottom lip was split.

He’d assumed time had looped again, but if it had then surely he shouldn’t still be feeling the aftermath of the brawl? Panic seized Jimmy by the shoulders and pinned him to the spot; had the loop finally been broken? But Thomas - what had become of Thomas?

Jimmy’s line of thought was interrupted by the creak of his bedroom door opening. Thomas appeared in the doorway; backlit as he was by the electric lamps in the corridor he looked like some otherworldly creature crossing the veil between worlds. Jimmy had never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and as relief washed over him he had to grip the edge of his vanity to keep himself upright.

“You’re awake,” Thomas stated. He was in his shirtsleeves, a medical kit shoved under his arm and a tray with a tea service for two balanced in one hand. “You shouldn’t be out of bed though.” He deposited the tray on Jimmy’s nightstand and crossed the room to where Jimmy was still fixed to the spot.

“You - there was a _knife_ , Thomas,” Jimmy said - he reached out and grasped Thomas by the front of his shirt. The under-butler had a few scrapes and bruises littered about his face like someone had carelessly splattered dark ink on a white blotter, but he otherwise seemed no worse for wear.

Thomas smiled, took Jimmy into his arms and kissed his brow tenderly. “There was,” he said, “and I stabbed the poor bastard with it. Got what he deserved, did that one. Then I took one of Mrs Patmore’s pans to him, just to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt you whilst I went for help.”

Jimmy could hardly believe it. With all the ridiculous ways Thomas had died it had seemed as if death was stalking him. The fact Thomas had avoided the thug’s knife pointed to a conclusion that he dared not hope for - he’d done it. He’d broken the loop and beaten the curse.

“You were the one we were all worried about,” Thomas continued. “You were out cold after that thug smashed your face against the wall. I had to run to the Abbey to get Alfred and Molesley,” he made a face that expressed his distaste for both men, “to help me carry you back. Bates and His Lordship himself went and stood over the louts with shotguns until the coppers arrived. Carson nearly had kittens.”

“Blimey,” Jimmy said, slightly disappointed to have missed it.

“And Clarkson came to have a look at you. Said it was a concussion, which I could’ve told ‘em for free,” he frowned, his grudge against the doctor still going strong, “and you’re to have a few days of bed rest. I’ve been nominated to play the nurse, if that suits the patient?”

“It’s suits me very well indeed,” Jimmy said and kissed Thomas on the corner of his mouth.

“Then back into bed with you,” he said against Jimmy’s lips.

Jimmy let himself be led back to bed and watched as Thomas plumped his pillows and tucked him in and generally fussed over him like a anxious mother over a babe. He finally settled into the chair he’d pulled up the the bedside and poured the slightly-stewed tea.

“Thomas,” Jimmy said, accepting his cup, “just tell me one thing. What day is it?”

Thomas stopped mid-sip, the porcelain of his teacup blindingly white against his red lips. “I didn’t think the concussion was that bad? Can’t you remember?” he frowned, concerned.

“It’s not that, I mean I think it’s...” Jimmy paused, frightened to say it incase it somehow caused the world to end. “Is - is it Wednesday?”

Thomas’s frown smoothed itself away like a crease beneath a hot iron.

“Yes Jimmy, it’s Wednesday.”


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry! Lockdown with a toddler was not helpful to the writing process! But, here it is, for what it’s worth 😬

It was - coincidently - a Tuesday morning when Thomas finally asked; “Why do you do that?”

Jimmy paused, his trousers halfway up his legs. “I find people tend to give me funny looks if I go down to breakfast in me birthday suit.”

“Not getting dressed, you silly bugger,” Thomas propped himself up with Jimmy’s lumpy pillow, his face and bare chest pale in the blueish early morning light. He pointed to the upside down glass on Jimmy’s nightstand. “Every night, before we go to sleep, you take a random item from your room and put it next to your bed. Why?”

Jimmy continued dressing to avoid looking at Thomas whilst lying to him. “It’s a silly superstition, it err, stops me havin’ bad dreams.” He wanted to tell Thomas everything - the time loop, the eternal Tuesday, how watching Thomas die had irrevocably changed him forever - and how his little ritual reassured him the moment he opened his eyes that time was still flowing as it should. But he was too afraid of either bringing down the wrath of whomever or whatever had caused the loop in time in the first place or giving Thomas a brain aneurysm and killing him permanently.

He supposed it would be his secret to carry for the rest of his days - a secret he’d never be able to fully understand.

Thomas seemed to consider it for a moment then said; “Perhaps I should start doin’ it then.”

“Bad dreams?” Jimmy left his shirt hanging open and clambered onto Thomas’s lap, kissing the under-butler along his jaw and feeling the rasp of stubble against his lips.

“Hmmm,” Thomas said against Jimmy’s cheek, “it’s going to sound awfully morbid but I keep dreaming about dying.”

Jimmy stilled and tried to keep his voice even as he said, as nonchalantly as he could; “Oh?”

Thomas’s hands wondered up inside Jimmy’s shirt. “It’s not scary really, just heartbreaking seeing you cry over me. Don’t know if you’d be so soppy in real life.”

“I definitely would,” Jimmy wrapped his arms around Thomas, “I’d be a right mess without you Thomas. But tell me, how do you die?”

“I don’t remember it properly but it’s like - like I can only remember the feeling of dying and your face and thinking how much I’d miss you.”

Jimmy buried his head in Thomas’s neck, “Do me a favour and try not to think about it, ok? I don’t like it.” His heart was hammering against his ribs and he pulled away to continue getting dressed, just in case Thomas noticed.

“Alright,” Thomas smiled, “soppy.”

Thomas snuck back to his room before the six o’clock call and Jimmy nervously paced his room for twenty minutes before heading down to breakfast. He bumped into Thomas on the stairs and they walked together - if anyone had noticed the pair had become even closer than ever, no one had mentioned it.

They were drawn into the kitchen by a right commotion; Daisy was one side of the room, red-faced and clearly cross, with Ivy and Alfred standing as a united front on the other.

“It’s not a funny joke Alfred,” Daisy said tersely, “I thought you were better than that.” The look she shot Ivy made it very clear she _didn’t_ think the kitchen maid was better than that.

“We’re not having a joke Daisy, I don’t know what to tell you,” Alfred said.

“What’s going on here then?” Thomas said in his most superior voice. Jimmy leaned against the wall to watch the drama unfold.

“Alfred and Ivy think they’re very funny, but Mrs Patmore won’t think it’s funny when we have to remake everything,” Daisy replied, using a wooden spoon to take her anger out on whatever was in her mixing bowl.

“Why would you have to remake everything?” Jimmy chimed in. Thomas gave him a look that said _do you believe these bloody idiots?_

“Because for some reason Ivy has made yesterday’s menus. She prepared the same upstairs breakfast as yesterday an’ started the pies for lunch, same as yesterday. And Alfred even came in with yesterday’s paper, reading the exact same story he told us yesterday. If it’s ‘sposed to be a joke, I don’t get it,” Daisy shook her head, “makin’ extra work and tryin’ to make me think I’ve gone loopy isn’t very funny.”

Jimmy nearly fell over.

“Daisy, what day do you think it is?” Thomas asked.

“Wednesday,” Daisy shrugged. “I know it is. It were Tuesday yesterday so it’s Wednesday today.”

Ivy, Alfred and Thomas exchanged looks. Jimmy stared at the floor and tried not to hyperventilate.

“Daisy,” Thomas said, slowly as if she was a bit simple, “it _is_ Tuesday.”

Daisy’s mouth opened and closed like she was trying to decide whether to call Thomas a liar or not. Mrs Patmore chose that moment to bustle in - she stopped halfway between Thomas and Daisy and took in the scene.

“Anyone care to let me know why there’s a public gathering taking place in my kitchen?” she said.

“Mrs Patmore, would you be so kind as to tell Daisy what day it is?” Thomas asked.

“What?”

“Please Mrs Patmore, humour me,” Thomas smiled and the cook gave him a suspicious look.

“It’s Tuesday,” she said, “why?”

Thomas shrugged and Daisy looked between the under-butler and Mrs Patmore, confused.

“But I - but - I don’t?” she said and Jimmy thought _yeah, I know that feeling._

“See?” Ivy hissed, “I weren’t doing anything wrong.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and wandered off towards breakfast, Mrs Patmore and Ivy started discussing pastry and Daisy slowly resumed her haphazard mixing. Jimmy took a deep breath, walked over and caught the under-cook by the elbow, pulling her into the pantry.

”What are you doin’?” Daisy hissed, wielding her wooden spoon like a weapon.

“Daisy,” he said, uncertain how to start, “tell me what’s going on.”

Daisy blinked, and something about Jimmy’s tone made her pause. “I - I was sure - oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.

“Try me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😉


End file.
